Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Here's to the King, sir

Here's to the King, Sir,

Here's to the King, sir!
Ye ken wha I mean, sir!
And to every honest man.
That will do't again.
Fill, fill your bumpers high;
Drain, drain your glasses dry;
Out upon him! fie! oh, fie!
That winna do't again.

Here's to the chieftains
Of the gallant Highland clans!
They hae done it mair nor ance,
And will do't again.
Fill, fill, &c.

When you hear the trumpet's sound
Tuttle taitie to the drums;
Up wi' swords and down your guns,
And to the loons again.
Fill, fill, &c.

Here's to the King o' Swede!
Fresh laurels crown his head!
Shame fa' every sneaking blade,
That winna do't again!
Fill, fill, &c.

But to make a' things right, now
He that drinks maun fight, too,
To show his heart's upright, too,
And that he'll do't again!
Fill, fill, &c.