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fair ;

When the t'other bag I sell, and the Full soon I grew sick of the sanctified sot, t'other bottle tell,

The regiment at large for a husband I got; I could meet a troop of hell at the sound From the gilded spontoon to the fife I of the drum.

was ready, Lal de daudle, &c.

I asked no more but a sodger laddie.

Sing, Lal de lal, &c.

But the peace it reduced me to beg in He ended ; and the kebars sheuk

despair, Aboon the chorus roar;

Till I met thy old boy at a Cunningham While frighted rattons backward leuk, And seek the benmost bore.

His rags regimental they flutter'd so A fairy fiddler frae the neuk,

gaudy, He skirlèd out “Encore !"

My heart it rejoiced at my sodger laddie. But up arose the martial chuck,

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. And laid the loud uproar.

And now I have lived—I know not how

long, AIR.

And still I can join in a cup and a song ; TUNE —"Soldier Laddie."

But whilst with both hands I can hold I once was a maid, though I cannot tell the glass steady, when,

Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. And still my delight is in proper young

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. men ;

RECITATIVO. Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie,

Poor Merry Andrew in the neuk, No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie ; Sing, Lal de lal, &c.

They mind't na wha the chorus teuk,

Between themselves they were sae busy: The first of my loves was a swaggering At length wi' drink and courting dizzy, blade,

He stoiter'd up and made a face : To rattle the thundering drum was his Then turn'd, and laid a smack on Grizzie, trade ;

Syne tuned his

pipes wi' grave His leg was so tight, and his cheek was

grimace :
so ruddy,
Transported I was with my sodger laddie.

Sing, Lal de lal, &c.

TUNE—"Auld Sir Symon."
But the godly old chaplain left him in the

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, lurch,

Sir Knave is a fool in a session ; So sword I forsook for the sake of the

He's there but a 'prentice, I trow, church ;

But I am a fool by profession. He ventured the soul, and I risk'd the body,

My grannie she bought me a beuk, Twas then I proved false to my sodger And I held awa to the school; laddie.

I fear I my talent misteuk,
Sing, Lal de lal, &c.

But what will ye hae of a fool?

With his philibeg and tartan plaid,
And guid claymore down by his side,
The ladies' hearts he did trepan,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.

Sing, hey, &c.

For drink I would venture my neck,

A hizzie's the half o' my craft, But what could ye other expect,

Of ane that's avowedly daft? I ance was tied up like a stirk,

For civilly swearing and quaffing ! I ance was abused in the kirk,

For touzling a 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.
Observed ye yon reverend lad

Maks faces 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 chiel that's a fool for himsel,

Gude Lord ! he's far dafter than I.

We rangéd a' from Tweed to Spey,
And lived like lords and ladies gay :
For a Lawland face he feared none,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.

Sing, hey, &c.

They banish'd him beyond the sea,
But ere the bud was on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the pearis ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.

Sing, hey, &c.

But, oh! 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 braw John Highland-


Sing, hey, &c.

Then neist outspak a raucle carlin,
Wha ken't fu' weel to cleek the sterling,
For mony a pursie she had hookit,
And had in mony a well been doukit ;
Her dove had been a Highland laddie,
But weary fa’ the the waefu' woodie !
Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began
To wail her braw John Highlandman :-

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A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, TUNE_"Oh, an ye were dead, Guidman!" Wha used at trysts and fairs to driddle,

Her strappin' limb and gawcy middle A Highland lad my love was born,

(He reach'd nae higher), The Lawland laws he held in scorn ;

Had holed his heartie like a riddle, But he still was faithfu' to his clan,

And blawn't on fire. My gallant braw John Highlandman.

Wi' hand on haunch, and upward ee, CHORUS.

He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman ! Then in an arioso key, Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman !

The wee Apollo, There's not a lad in a' the lan'

Set off wi' allegretto glee Was match for my John Highlandman.

His giga solo.

AIR. Tune—" Whistle ower the lave o't." Let me rkye up to dight that tear,

And go wi' me and be my dear, And then your every care and fear

May whistle ower the lave o't.

But though his little heart did grieve

When round the tinkler press'd her, He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve,

When thus the caird address'd her :

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At kirns and weddings we'se be there,
And oh! sae nicely's we will fare ;
We'll bouse aboot till Daddy Care
Sings whistle ower the lave o't.

I am, &c.
Sae merrily the banes we'll pike,
And sun ourselves about the dike,
And at our leisure, when ye like,
We'll whistle ower the lave o't.

I am, &c. But bless me wi' your heaven o'charms, And while I kittle hair on thairms, Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms, May whistle ower the lave o't.

I am, &c.

TUNE,"Clout the Caudron."
My bonny lass, I work in brass,

A tinkler is my station :
I've travell'd round all Christian ground

In this my occupation.
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd

In many a noble squadron :
But vain they search'd, when off I march'd
To go and clout the caudron.

I've ta'en the gold, &c. Despised that shrimp, that wither'd imp,

Wi' a' his noise and cap'rin',
And tak a share wi' those that bear

The budget and the apron.
And by that stoup, my faith and houp,

And by that dear Kilbagie,
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant,
May I ne'er weet my craigie.

And by that stoup, &c.

RECITATIVO. Her charms had struck a sturdy caird,

As weel as poor gut-scraper ; He taks the fiddler by the beard,

And draws a rusty rapier

The caird prevail d—the unblushing fair

In his embraces sunk,
Partly wi' love, o'ercome sae sair,

And partly she was drunk.
Sir Violino, with an air

That show'd a man of spunk, Wish'd unison between the pair, And made the bottle clunk

To their health that night. But urchin Cupid shot a shaft

That play'd a dame a shavie,
The fiddler raked her fore and aft

Ahint the chicken cavie.
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft,

Though limping wi' the spavie,
He hirpled up, and lap like daft,
And shored them Dainty Davie

O' boot that night.

He swore by a' was swearing worth,

To speet him like a pliver, Unless he wad from that time forth

Relinquish her for ever.

Wi' ghastly ee, poor Tweedle-dee

Upon his hunkers bended, And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face,

And sae the quarrel ended.


He was a care-defying blade

As ever Bacchus listed, Though fortune sair upon him laid,

His heart she ever miss'd it. He had nae wish but-to be glad,

Nor want but—when he thirsted ; He hated nought but—to be sad, And thus the Muse suggested

His sang that night :

For a' that, and a' that,

And twice as muckle's a' that ; My dearest bluid, to do them guid,

They're welcome till't for a' that.


TUNE_" For a' that, and a' that." I am a bard of no regard,

Wi' gentle folks, and a' that:
But, Homer-like, the glowrin' byke,

Frae town to town I draw that.

So sung the bard--and Nansie's wa's
Shook wi' a thunder of applause,

Re-echoed from each mouth ;
They toom'd their pokes and pawn'd their

duds, They scarcely left to co'er their fuds,

To quench their lowin' drouth.
Then ower again the jovial thrang

The poet did request,
To loose his pack and wale a sang,

A ballad o' the best ;
He, rising, rejoicing,

Between his twa Deborahs
Looks round him, and found them

Impatient for the chorus.


For a' that, and a' that,

And twice as muckle's a' that ; I've lost but ane, I've twa behin',

I've wife eneugh for a' that.

I never drank the Muses' stank,

Castalia's burn, and a' that; But there it streams, and richly reams, My Helicon I ca’ that.

For a' that, &c,

AIR. TUNE-"Jolly mortals, fill your glasses." See! the smoking bowl before us,

Mark our jovial ragged ring ! Round and round take up the chorus,

And in raptures let us sing.

Great love I bear to a' the fair,

Their humble slave, and a' that; But lordly will, I hold it still A mortal sin to thraw that.

For a' that, &c.

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet,

Wi' mutual love, and a' that : But for how lang the flee may stang, Let inclination law that.

For a' that, &c.

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 no matter how or where !

A fig, &c. With the ready trick and fable,

Round we wander all the day ; And at night, in barn or stable, Hug our doxies on the hay.

A fig, &c.

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft,

They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; But clear your decks, and here's the sex !

I like the jads for a' that.

Does the train-attended carriage Then horn for horn they stretch and strive,

Through the country lighter rove? Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, Does the sober bed of marriage Till all their weel-swall'd kytes belyve Witness brighter scenes of love?

Are bent like drums ;
A fig, &c. Then auld guidman, maist like to rive,

Bethankit hums.
Life is all a variorum,
We regard not how it goes ;

Is there that ower his French regoût,
Let them cant about decorum

Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Who have characters to lose.

Or fricassee wad mak her spew
A fig, &c.

Wi' perfect scunner,

Looks down wi' sneerin', scornfu' view Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets !

On sic a dinner? Here's to all the wandering train !

Poor devil ! see him ower his trash, Here's our ragged brats and callets !

As feckless as a wither'd rash, One and all cry out-Amen!

His spindle-skank a guid whip-lash,
A fig for those by law protected !

His nieve a nit :
Liberty's a glorious feast !

Through bloody flood or field to dash, Courts for cowards were erected,

Oh, how unfit !
Churches built to please the priest. But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,

The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

He'll mak it whistle ;

And legs, and arms, and heads will sned,

Like taps o' thrissle.
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin' race !

Ye powers wha mak mankind your care, Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Painch, tripe, or thairm :

Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware Weel are ye wordy of a grace

That jaups in luggies ;
As lang's my arm.

But if ye wish her grateful prayer,

Gie her a haggis !
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill

In time o' need,
While through your pores the dews distil

When biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Like amber bead.

Sharp shivers through the leafless bower;

When Phoebus gies a short-lived glowr His knife see rustie labour dight,

Far south the lift, And cut you up wi' ready slight,

Dim-darkning through the flaky shower, Trenching your gushing entrails bright

Or whirling drift :
Like ony ditch ;
And then, oh, what a glorious sight,

Ae night the storm the steeples rock'd,
Warm reekin', rich !

Poor labour sweet in sleep was lock'd,

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