Our good king sits in Windsor tower,
The sun-beams glint sae cheerfu'!
A birdie sang in yonder bower,
And O! but it sang fearfu'!
Tell me, my bird, my mourning bird,
What is't you sing so drearie?
I sing o' danger, fire, and sword,
Fell faes are coming near ye!

The king stept on his terraced height,
His heart was bauld and cheerie;
'I fear no foe, by day or night,
While Britain's sons are near me!'
The bird ay sang upon the thorn,
And ay its sang was fearfu';
Good king! your ships maun sail the morn,
For England's faes are near you.

The king looked frae his castle hie!
His looks was blythe and airy!
'There's not a foe dares face the sea!
Brave England's tars are there ay.'
The birdie sang ay on the thorn,
But now its sang grew cheerfu',
Good king! we'll laugh your faes to scorn;
There's nought I see to fear now!

The birdie flew on blythesome wing,
And O! but it sang rarely;
And ay it sang, 'God bless our king!
Bauld Britons luve him deerly.'
It flew o'er hill, it flew o'er lea,
It sang o'er moor and hether,
Till it came to the north countrie,
Whar a' sang blythe thegither.

They sang o' fame and martial might,
(The pride o' Scottish story)
They sang o' Edward's wars and flight,
And Bruce's radiant glory!
They laughed at Gallia's threat'ning ills
(Their shield was Patriot-honour):
They rushed down Freedom's heath-flowered hills,
And, rattling, joined her banner!