“O weel weel may the waters rise,
In welcome o’ their Queen;
What gars ye look sae white, Albert?
What makes yer ee sae green?”
“My heart is sick, my heid is sair:
Gie me a glass o’ the gude brandie:
To set my foot on the braid green sward,
I’d gie the half o’ my yearly fee.
“It’s sweet to hunt the sprightly hare
On the bonny slopes o’ Windsor lea,
But oh, it’s ill to bear the thud
And pitching o’ the saut saut sea!”
And aye they sailed, and aye they sailed,
Till England sank behind,
And over to the coast of France
They drave before the wind.
Then up and spak the King o’ France,
Was birling at the wine;
“O wha may be the gay ladye,
That owns that ship sae fine?
“And wha may be that bonny lad,
That looks sae pale and wan
I’ll wad my lands o’ Picardie,
That he’s nae Englishman.”
Then up and spak an auld French lord,
Was sitting beneath his knee,
“It is the Queen o’ braid England
That’s come across the sea.”
“And oh an it be England’s Queen,
She’s welcome here the day;
I’d rather hae her for a friend
Than for a deadly fae.
“Gae, kill the eerock in the yard,
The auld sow in the sty,
And bake for her the brockit calf,
But and the puddock-pie!”
And he has gane until the ship,
As soon as it drew near,
And he has ta’en her by the hand—
“Ye’re kindly welcome here!”