PART II.
The sun was high within the lift
Afore the French King raise;
And syne he louped intil his sark,
And warslit on his claes.
“Gae up, gae up, my little foot-page,
Gae up until the toun;
And gin ye meet wi’ the auld harper,
Be sure ye bring him doun.”
And he has met wi’ the auld harper;
O but his een were reid;
And the bizzing o’ a swarm o’ bees
Was singing in his heid.
“Alack! alack!” the harper said,
“That this should e’er hae been!
I daurna gang before my liege,
For I was fou yestreen.”
“It’s ye maun come, ye auld harper:
Ye daurna tarry lang;
The King is just dementit-like
For wanting o’ a sang.”
And when he came to the King’s chamber,
He loutit on his knee,
“O what may be your gracious will
Wi’ an auld frail man like me?”
“I want a sang, harper,” he said,
“I want a sang richt speedilie;
And gin ye dinna make a sang,
I’ll hang ye up on the gallows tree.”
“I canna do’t, my liege,” he said,
“Hae mercy on my auld grey hair!
But gin that I had got the words,
I think that I might mak the air.”
“And wha’s to mak the words, fause loon,
When minstrels we have barely twa;
And Lamartine is in Paris toun,
And Victor Hugo far awa?”