| |
| THE OLD men sat with hats pulld down, | |
| Their claret cups before them: | |
| Broad shadows hid their sullen eyes, | |
| The tavern lamps shone oer them, | |
| As a brimming bowl, with crystal filld, | 5 |
| Came borne by the landlords daughter, | |
| Who wore in her bosom the fair white rose, | |
| That grew best over the water. | |
| |
| Then all leapd up, and joind their hands | |
| With hearty clasp and greeting, | 10 |
| The brimming cups, outstretchd by all, | |
| Over the wide bowl meeting. | |
| A health, they cried, to the witching eyes | |
| Of Kate, the landlords daughter! | |
| But dont forget the white, white rose | 15 |
| That grows best over the water. | |
| |
| Each others cups they touchd all round, | |
| The last red drop outpouring; | |
| Then with a cry that warmd the blood, | |
| One heart-born chorus roaring | 20 |
| Let the glass go round, to pretty Kate, | |
| The landlords black-eyed daughter; | |
| But never forget the white, white rose | |
| That grows best over the water. | |
| |
| Then hats flew up and swords sprang out, | 25 |
| And lusty rang the chorus | |
| Never, they cried, while Scots are Scots, | |
| And the broad Friths before us. | |
| A ruby ring the glasses shine | |
| As they toast the landlords daughter, | 30 |
| Because she wore the white, white rose | |
| That grew best over the water. | |
| |
| A poet cried, Our thistle s brave, | |
| With all its stings and prickles; | |
| The shamrock with its holy leaf | 35 |
| Is spard by Irish sickles. | |
| But bumpers round, for what are these | |
| To Kate, the landlords daughter, | |
| Who wears at her bosom the rose as white, | |
| That grows best over the water? | 40 |
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| They dashd the glasses at the wall, | |
| No lip might touch them after; | |
| The toast had sanctified the cups | |
| That smashd against the rafter; | |
| Then chairs thrown back, they up again | 45 |
| To toast the landlords daughter, | |
| But never forgot the white, white rose | |
| That grew best over the water. | |
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