# Fifty years shepherd, and fifty a king/Fifty years shepherd, and fifty a king

SONGS.
THE JUBILEE.
Frae the Grampian hills will tho Royal ear hear it, An’ listen to Norman the Shepherd’s plain tale,
The north wind is blawing, and gently will bear it Unvarnish’d and honest, o’er hill and o’er dale; When London it reaches, at court sure receive it, Like a tale you may read it, or like a sang sing, Poor Norman is easy, but you may believe it, I m fifty years Shepherd, you’re fifty a King.
Your Jubilee now wi’ my ain I will mingle, For you and mysel’ twa fat lambkins I’ll slay; Fresh turf I will lay in a heap on my ingle, An wi' my auld neebors I’ll rant out the day. My pipes that I play'd on lang syne, I will blaw them, The chanter I ll teach to lilt over each spring, My drones to the tune I’ll round an’ round thraw them, I’m fifty years Shepherd, you’re fifty a King.
The flocks o’ Great Britain ye’ve lang weel attended, The flocks o’ Great Britain demanded your care, Frae the tod an’ the wolf they’ve been snugly defended, And let to fresh pastures, fresh water and air; ​My flocks I have led day by day o’er the heather, At night they around me ha’e danc’d in a ring, I’ve been their protector thro’ foul and fair weather, I m fifty years Shepherd, you’re fifty a King.
Their fleeces I’ve shorn, frae the cauld to protect me, Their fleeces they gave when a burden they grew; When leas’d frae the sheeting their looks did respect me, So the flocks o’ Great Britain still look upon you; They grudge not their monarch a mite o’ their riches, Their active industry is ay on the wing; Then you and me, Sire, I think are twa matches, I’m fifty years Shepherd, you’re fifty a King.
Me wi’ my sheep, Sire, and you wi’ your subjects, On that festive day we’ll both gladly rejoice; Our twa hoary heads will be fu’ o’ new projects, To please the leal vassals that made us their choice! Wi' sweet rips o’ hay I will treat a’ my wethers, The juice o’ the vine to your lords you will bring, The respect they ha’e for us is better than brother’s, I’m fifty years Shepherd, you’re fifty a King.
My crook I will dress in the relies o’ summer, My faithfu’ auld Colly shall hail that blithe morn, And to my wee cabin I’ll welcome each comer, The friend that hath plenty, and stranger forlorn; You’ll sure do the same tho’ nobody broach it, You’ve plenty of beef, butter, lobsters, and ling, And rowth o’ Musicians to strike up the crotchet,
​I live i' the cottage where Norval was bred in, You live in the palace your ancestors rear’d, Nae guests uninvited dare come to our weddin’, Nor ruthless invader pluck us by the beard; Then thanks to the island we live in, where shipping Skim round us abreast, or like geese in a string, Then safe I can say, as my brose I am sipping, I’m fifty years Shepherd, you’re fifty a King,
But ah! Royal George, and ah! humble Norman, Life to us baith draws near to a close;
The year's far awa that was our natal hour, man, Tho time's at our elbow that brings us repose; But e'en let it come, sirs, if conscience acquit us, A sigh frae our bosom death never shall wring, An' may the next Jubilee, amang angels meet us, So hail the auld Shopherd, and worthy auld King.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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