Heard ye o the tree o France, I watna whats the name ot; Around the tree the patriots dance, Weel Europe kens the fame ot. It stands where ance the Bastile stood, A prison built by kings, man, When Superstitions hellish brood Kept France in leading-strings, man. Upo this tree there grows sic fruit, Its virtues a can tell, man; It raises man aboon the brute, It maks him ken himsel, man. Gif ance the peasant taste a bit, Hes greater than a lord, man, And wi the beggar shares a mite 0 a he can afford, man This fruit is worth a Africs wealth, To comfort us twas sent, man: To gie the sweetest blush o health, And mak us a content, man It clears the een, it cheers the heart, Maks high and low gude friends, man; And he wha acts the traitors part, It to perdition sends, man. My blessings aye attend the chiel, Wha pitied Gallias slaves, man, And staw a branch, spite o the deil, Frae yont tho western waves, man. Fair Virtue watered it wi care, And now she sees wi pride, man, How weel it buds and blossoms there, Its branches spreading wide, man. But vicious folk aye hate to see The works o Virtue thrive, man; The courtly vermins banned the tree, And grat to see it thrive, man; King Loui thought to cut it down, When it was unco sma, man For this the watchman cracked his crown, Cut aff his head and a, man. A wicked crew syne, on a time, Did tak a solemn aith, man, It neer should flourish to its prime, I wat they pledged their faith, man. Awa they gaed wi mock parade Like beagles hunting game, man, But soon grew weary o the trade, And wished theyd been at hame, man. For Freedom, standing by the tree, Her sons did loudly ca, man; She sang a sang o liberty, Which pleased them ane and a, man By her inspired, the new-born race Soon drew the avenging steel, man; The hirelings ran-her foes gied chase, And banged the despot weel, man Let Britain boast her hardy oak, Her poplar and her pine, man, Auld Britain ance could crack her joke, And oer her neighbours shine, man But seek the forest round and round, And soon twill be agreed, man, That sic a tree can not be found Twixt London and the Tweed, man. Without this tree, alake this life Is but a vale o wo, man; A scene o sorrow mixed wi strife, Nae real joys we know, man. We labour soon, we labour late, To feed the titled knave, man; And a the comfort were to get, Is that ayont the grave, man. Wi plenty o sic trees, I trow, The warld would live in peace, man; The sword would help to mak a plough, The din o war wad cease, man. Like brethren in a common cause, Wed on each other smile, man; And equal rights and equal laws Wad gladden every isle, man. Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat Sic halesome dainty cheer, man; Id gie my shoon frae aff my feet, To taste sic fruit, I swear, man. Syne let us pray, auld England may Sure plant this far-famed tree, man; And blithe well sing, and hail the day That gave us liberty, #jistsayaye
Posted on: Sun, 10 Aug 2014 08:40:02 +0000
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