guid lord! he's far dafter than i.
recitativo
then niest outspak a raucle carlin,
wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterlin;
for mony a pursie she 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 philibeg an' tartan plaid,
an' guid claymore down 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 ere the 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 braw john highlandman!
sing hey, c.
and now a widow, i must mourn
the pleasures that will ne'er return:
thefort 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,
if e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant,
may i ne'er weet my craigie.
and by that stowp, c.
recitativo
the caird prevail'd—th' unblushing fair
in his embraces sunk;
partly wi' love o'ee 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,
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.
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 wee 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,