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 d.y.k.e; 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 st.u.r.dy caird, As weel as poor gut-sc.r.a.per; 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 la.s.s, I work in bra.s.s, 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 n.o.ble 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 ap.r.o.n!

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' s.p.u.n.k, 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 s.e.x!"

I like the jads for a' that.