Recitativo
When lyartleaves bestrow the yird,
Or wavering like the bauckie-bird,
Bedim cauldBoreas’ blast;
When hailstanes drive wi’ bitter skyte,
And infant frosts begin to bite,
In hoary cranreuchdrest;
Aenight at e’ena merry core
O’ randie, gangrelbodies,
In Poosie-Nansie’s held the splore,
To drink their orraduddies;
Wi’ quaffing an’ laughing,
They ranted an’ they sang,
Wi’ jumping an’ thumping,
The veragirdlerang,
First, neistthe fire, in auldredrags,
Ane sat, weel brac’d wi’ mealy bags,
And knapsack a’ in order;
His doxy lay within his arm;
Wi’ usquebaean’ blankets warm
She blinkit on her sodger;
An’ aye he gies the toziedrab
The titherskelpin’ kiss,
While she held up her greedy gab,
Just like an aumousdish;
Ilksmack still, did crackstill,
Just like a cadger’s whip;
Then staggering an’ swaggering
He roar’d this ditty up-
Air
Tune-“Soldier’s Joy.”
I am a son of Mars who have been in many wars,
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come;
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench,
When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum.
Lal de daudle, &c.
My ‘prenticeship I past where my leader breath’d his last,
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram:
and I served out my trade when the gallant game was play’d,
And the Morro lowwas laid at the sound of the drum.
I lastly was with Curtis among the floating batt’ries,
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb;
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me,
I’d clatteron my stumps at the sound of a drum.
And now tho’ I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg,
And many a tatter’d rag hanging over my bum,
I’m as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet,
As when I used in scarlet to follow a drum.
What tho’ with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks,
Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home,
When the t’other bag I sell, and the t’other bottle tell,
I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of a drum.
Recitativo
He ended; and the kebarssheuk,
Aboonthe chorus roar;
While frighted rattons backward leuk,
An’ seek the benmostbore:
A fairy fiddler frae the neuk,
He skirl’d out, encore!
But up arose the martial chuck,
An’ laid the loud uproar.
Air
Tune-“Sodger Laddie.”
I once was a maid, tho’ I cannot tell when,
And still my delight is in proper young men;
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie,
No wonder I’m fond of a sodger laddie,
Sing, lal de lal, &c.
The first of my loves was a swaggering blade,
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade;
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy,
Transported I was with my sodger laddie.
But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch;
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church:
He ventur’d the soul, and I risked the body,
‘Twas then I proved false to my sodger laddie.
Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot,
The regiment at large for a husband I got;
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready,
I asked no more but a sodger laddie.
But the peace it reduc’d me to beg in despair,
Till I met old boy in a Cunningham fair,
His rags regimental, they flutter’d so gaudy,
My heart it rejoic’d at a sodger laddie.
And now I have liv’d-I know not how long,
And still I can join in a cup and a song;
But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady,
Here’s to thee, my hero, my sodgerladdie.
Recitativo
Poor Merry-Andrew, in the neuk,
Sat guzzling wi’ a tinkler-hizzie;
They mind’t nawha the chorus teuk,
Between themselves they were sae busy:
At length, wi’ drink an’ courting dizzy,
He stoiter’dup an’ made a face;
Then turn’d an’ laid a smack on Grizzie,
Synetun’d his pipes wi’ grave grimace.
Air
Tune-“Auld Sir Symon.”
Sir Wisdom’s a fool when he’s fou;
Sir Knave is a fool in a session;
He’s there but a ‘prentice I trow,
But I am a fool by profession.
My grannieshe bought me a beuk,
An’ I held awato the school;
I fear I my talent misteuk,
But what will ye hae of a fool?
For drink I would venture my neck;
A hizzie’s the half of my craft;
But what could ye other expect
Of anethat’s avowedly daft?
I ance was tied up like a stirk,
For civilly swearing and quaffin;
I ancewas abus’d i’ the kirk,
For towsinga lass i’ my daffin.
Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport,
Let naebody name wi’ a jeer;
There’s even, I’m tauld, i’ the Court
A tumbler ca’d the Premier.
Observ’d ye yonreverend lad
Makfaces to tickle the mob;
He rails at our mountebank squad, –
It’s rivalship just i’the job.
And now my conclusion I’ll tell,
For faith I’m confoundedly dry;
The chielthat’s a fool for himsel’,
Guid Lord! he’s far dafter than I.
Recitativo
Then niest outspak a rauclecarlin,
Wha kent fu’weel to cleekthe sterlin;
For mony a pursieshe had hooked,
An’ had in mony a well been douked;
Her love had been a Highland laddie,
But weary fa’the waefu’ woodie!
Wi’ sighs an’ sobs she thus began
To wail her braw John Highlandman.
Air
Tune-“O, an ye were dead, Guidman.”
A Highland lad my love was born,
The Lalland laws he held in scorn;
But he still was faithfu’ to his clan,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
Chorus
Sing hey my braw John Highlandman!
Sing ho my braw John Highlandman!
There’s not a lad in a’ the lan’
Was match for my John Highlandman.
With his philibegan’ tartan plaid,
An’ guidclaymoredown by his side,
The ladies’ hearts he did trepan,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
We ranged a’ from Tweed to Spey,
An’ liv’d like lords an’ ladies gay;
For a Lalland face he feared none, –
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
They banish’d him beyond the sea.
But erethe bud was on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
But, och! they catch’d him at the last,
And bound him in a dungeon fast:
My curse upon them every one,
They’ve hang’d my brawJohn Highlandman!
Sing hey, &c.
And now a widow, I must mourn
The pleasures that will ne’er return:
The comfort but a hearty can,
When I think on John Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
Recitativo
A pigmy scraper wi’ his fiddle,
Whaus’d at trystes an’ fairs to driddle.
Her strappin limb and gausy middle
(He reach’d naehigher)
Had hol’d his heartie like a riddle,
An’ blawn’t on fire.
Wi’ hand on hainch, and upward e’e,
He croon’d his gamut, one, two, three,
Then in an arioso key,
The weeApoll
Setoff wi’ allegretto glee
His giga solo.
Air
Tune-“Whistle owre the lave o’t.”
Let me rykeup to dightthat tear,
An’ go wi’ me an’ be my dear;
An’ then your every care an’ fear
May whistle owre the lave o’t.
Chorus
I am a fiddler to my trade,
An’ a’ the tunes that e’er I played,
The sweetest still to wife or maid,
Was whistle owre the lave o’t.
At kirns an’ weddins we’sebe there,
An’ O sae nicely’s we will fare!
We’ll bowse about tillDaddie Care
Sing whistle owre the lave o’t.
I am, &c.
Sae merrily’s the banes we’ll pyke,
An’ sun oursel’s about the dyke;
An’ at our leisure, when ye like,
We’ll whistle owre the lave o’t.
I am, &c.
But bless me wi’ your heav’n o’ charms,
An’ while I kittlehair on thairms,
Hunger, cauld, an’ a’ sicharms,
May whistle owre the laveo’t.
I am, &c.
Recitativo
Her charms had struck a sturdy caird,
As weelas poor gut-scraper;
He taks the fiddler by the beard,
An’ draws a roostyrapier-
He swoor, by a’ was swearing worth,
To speethim like a pliver,
Unless he would from that time forth
Relinquish her for ever.
Wi’ ghastly e’epoor tweedle-dee
Upon his hunkersbended,
An’ pray’d for grace wi’ ruefu’ face,
An’ so the quarrel ended.
But tho’ his little heart did grieve
When round the tinkler prest her,
He feign’d to snirtlein his sleeve,
When thus the caird address’d her:
Air
Tune-“Clout the Cauldron.”
My bonielass, I work in brass,
A tinkleris my station:
I’ve travell’d round all Christian ground
In this my occupation;
I’ve taen the gold, an’ been enrolled
In many a noble squadron;
But vain they search’d when off I march’d
To go an’ cloutthe cauldron.
I’ve taen the gold, &c.
Despise that shrimp, that wither’d imp,
With a’ his noise an’ cap’rin;
An’ take a share with those that bear
The budgetand the apron!
And by that stowp! my faith an’ houp,
And by that dear Kilbaigie,^2
If e’erye want, or meet wi’ scant,
May I ne’er weet my craigie.
And by that stowp, &c.
Recitativo
The cairdprevail’d-th’ unblushing fair
In his embraces sunk;
Partly wi’ love o’ercome saesair,
An’ partly she was drunk:
Sir Violino, with anair
That show’d a man o’ spunk,
Wish’d unison between the pair,
An’ made the bottle clunk
To their health that night.
But hurchinCupid shot a shaft,
That play’d a dame a shavie-
The fiddler rak’d her, fore and aft,
Behint the chicken cavie.
Her lord, a wightof Homer’s craft,^3
Tho’ limpin wi’ the spavie,
He hirpl’d up, an’ laplike daft,
An’ shor’d them Dainty Davie.
O’ bootthat night.
He was a care-defying blade
As ever Bacchus listed!
Tho’ Fortune sairupon him laid,
His heart, she ever miss’d it.
He had no wish but-to be glad,
Nor want but-when he thirsted;
He hated nought but-to be sad,
An’ thus the muse suggested
His sang that night.
Air
Tune-“For a’ that, an’ a’ that.”
I am a Bard of no regard,
Wi’ gentle folks an’ a’ that;
But Homer-like, the glowrin byke,
Fraetown to town I draw that.
Chorus
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
An’ twice as muckle’s a’ that;
I’ve lost but ane, I’ve twa behin’,
I’ve wife eneughfor a’ that.
I never drank the Muses’ stank,
Castalia’s burn, an’ a’ that;
But there it streams an’ richly reams,
My Helicon I ca’that.
For a’ that, &c.
Great love Idbear to a’ the fair,
Their humble slave an’ a’ that;
But lordly will, I hold it still
A mortal sinto thrawthat.
For a’ that, &c.
In raptures sweet, this hour we meet,
Wi’mutual love an’ a’ that;
But for how langthe flie may stang,
Let inclination law that.
For a’ that, &c.
Their tricks an’ crafthaeput me daft,
They’ve taenme in, an’ a’ that;
Butclear your decks, and here’s-“The Sex!”
I like the jads for a’ that.
Chorus
For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
An’ twice as muckle’s a’ that;
My dearest bluid, to do them guid,
They’re welcome till’tfor a’that.
Recitativo
So sang the bard – and Nansie’s wa’s
Shook with a thunder of applause,
Re-echo’d from each mouth!
They toom’d their pocks, they pawn’d their duds,
They scarcely left to co’er their fuds,
To quench their lowindrouth:
Then owreagain, the jovial thrang
The poet did request
To lowsehis pack an’ walea sang,
A ballad o’the best;
He rising, rejoicing,
Between his twaDeborahs,
Looks round him, an’found them
Impatient for the chorus.
Air
tune-“Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses.”
See the smoking bowl before us,
Markour jovial ragged ring!
Round and round take up the chorus,
And in raptures let us sing-
Chorus
A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty’s a glorious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest.
What is title, what is treasure,
What is reputation’s care?
If we lead a life of pleasure,
‘Tis nomatter how or where!
A fig for, &c.
With the ready trick and fable,
Round we wander all the day;
And at night in barn orstable,
Hug our doxies on the hay.
A fig for, &c.
Does the train-attended carriage
Thro’ the country lighter rove?
Does the sober bed of marriage
Witness brighter scenes of love?
A fig for, &c.
Life is al a variorum,
We regard not how it goes;
Let them cant about decorum,
Who have character to lose.
A fig for, &c.
Here’s to budgets, bags and wallets!
Here’s to all the wandering train.
Here’s our ragged bratsand callets,
One and all cry out, Amen!
Chorus
A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty’s a glorious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest.