And she has gane to the proud castel, That's biggit beside the sea: But aye, when she thought o' the bairns at hame, The tear was in her ee. She gied the King the Cheshire cheese, But and the porter fine; And he gied her the puddock-pies, But and the blude-red wine. Then up and spak the dourest Prince, An admiral was he; "Let's keep the Queen o' England here, Sin' better mayna be! "O mony is the dainty king That we hae trappit here; And mony is the English yerl That's in our dungeons drear!" "You lee, you lee, ye graceless loon, Sae loud's I hear ye lee! There never yet was Englishman That came to skaith by me. "Gae oot, gae oot, ye fause traitour! Gae oot until the street; It's shame that Kings and Queens should sit Wi' sic a knave at meat!" Then up and raise the young French lord, In wrath and hie disdain-- "O ye may sit, and ye may eat Your puddock-pies alane! "But were I in my ain gude ship, And sailing wi' the wind, And did I meet wi' auld Napier, I'd tell him o' my mind." O then the Queen leuch loud and lang, And her colour went and came; "Gin ye meet wi' Charlie on the sea, Ye'll wish yersel at hame!" And aye they birlit at the wine, And drank richt merrilie, Till the auld cock crawed in the castle-yard, And the abbey bell struck three. The Queen she gaed until her bed, And Prince Albert likewise; And the last word that gay ladye said Was--"O thae puddock-pies!" 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?" "The diel may gang for Lamartine, And flee away wi' auld Hugo, For a better minstrel than them baith Within this very toun I know. "O kens my liege the gude Walter, At hame they ca' him BON GAULTIER? He'll rhyme ony day wi' True Thomas, And he is in the castle here."