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 braw John 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, Wha us’d at trystes an’ fairs to driddle. Her strappin limb and gausy middle (He reach’d nae higher) 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 wee Apoll Set off wi’ allegretto glee His giga solo.
Air
Tune—“Whistle owre the lave o’t.”
Let me ryke up to dight that 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’se be there, An’ O sae nicely’s we will fare! We’ll bowse about till Daddie 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 kittle hair on thairms, Hunger, cauld, an’ a’ sic harms, May whistle owre the lave o’t. I am, &c.
Recitativo
Her charms had struck a sturdy caird, As weel as poor gut-scraper; He taks the fiddler by the beard, An’ draws a roosty rapier— He swoor, by a’ was swearing worth, To speet him like a pliver, Unless he would from that time forth Relinquish her for ever.
Wi’ ghastly e’e poor tweedle-dee Upon his hunkers bended, 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 snirtle in his sleeve, When thus the caird address’d her:
Air
Tune—“Clout the Cauldron.”
My bonie lass, I work in brass, A tinkler is 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’ clout the 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 budget and the apron! And by that stowp! my faith an’ houp, And by that dear Kilbaigie,^1 If e’er ye want, or meet wi’ scant, May I ne’er weet my craigie. And by that stowp, &c.
[Footnote 1: A peculiar sort of whisky so called, a great favorite with Poosie Nansie’s clubs.—R.B.]
Recitativo
The caird prevail’d—th’ unblushing fair In his embraces sunk; Partly wi’ love o’ercome sae sair, An’ partly she was drunk: Sir Violino, with an air That show’d a man o’ spunk, Wish’d unison between the pair, An’ made the bottle clunk To their health that night.
But hurchin Cupid 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 wight of Homer’s craft,^2 Tho’ limpin wi’ the spavie, He hirpl’d up, an’ lap like daft, An’ shor’d them Dainty Davie. O’ boot that night.
He was a care-defying blade As ever Bacchus listed! Tho’ Fortune sair upon 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, Frae town 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 eneugh for a’ that.
[Footnote 2: Homer is allowed to be the oldest ballad-singer on record.—R.B.]
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 sin to thraw that. For a’ that, &c.
In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, Wi’ mutual love an’ a’ that; But for how lang the flie may stang, Let inclination law that. For a’ that, &c.
Their tricks an’ craft hae put me daft, They’ve taen me in, an’ a’ that; But clear 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’t for 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 lowin drouth: Then owre again, the jovial thrang The poet did request To lowse his pack an’ wale a sang, A ballad o’ the best; He rising, rejoicing, Between his twa Deborahs, Looks round him, an’ found them Impatient for the chorus.
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—
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 no matter how or where! A fig for, &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 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 brats and 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.
Song—For A’ That^1
Tune—“For a’ that.”
Tho’ women’s minds, like winter winds, May shift, and turn, an’ a’ that, The noblest breast adores them maist— A consequence I draw that.
Chorus
For a’ that, an’ a’ that, And twice as meikle’s a’ that; The bonie lass that I loe best She’ll be my ain for a’ that.
Great love I bear to a’ the fair, Their humble slave, an’ a’ that; But lordly will, I hold it still A mortal sin to thraw that. For a’ that, &c.
But there is ane aboon the lave, Has wit, and sense, an’ a’ that; A bonie lass, I like her best, And wha a crime dare ca’ that? For a’ that, &c.
In rapture sweet this hour we meet, Wi’ mutual love an’ a’ that,
[Footnote 1: A later version of “I am a bard of no regard” in “The Jolly Beggars.”]
But for how lang the flie may stang, Let inclination law that. For a’ that, &c.
Their tricks an’ craft hae put me daft. They’ve taen me in, an’ a’ that; But clear your decks, and here’s—“The Sex!” I like the jads for a’ that. For a’ that, &c.
Song—Merry Hae I Been Teethin A Heckle
Tune—“The bob O’ Dumblane.”
O Merry hae I been teethin’ a heckle, An’ merry hae I been shapin’ a spoon; O merry hae I been cloutin’ a kettle, An’ kissin’ my Katie when a’ was done. O a’ the lang day I ca’ at my hammer, An’ a’ the lang day I whistle and sing; O a’ the lang night I cuddle my kimmer, An’ a’ the lang night as happy’s a king.
Bitter in idol I lickit my winnins O’ marrying Bess, to gie her a slave: Blest be the hour she cool’d in her linnens, And blythe be the bird that sings on her grave! Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie; O come to my arms and kiss me again! Drucken or sober, here’s to thee, Katie! An’ blest be the day I did it again.