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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 grannie she bought me a beuk,
An' I held awa to 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 ane that's avowedly daft?

I ance was tied up like a stirk,
For civilly swearing and quaffin;

I ance was abus'd i' the kirk,

For towsing 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.

Observ'd ye yon reverend lad
Mak 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',

Guid L-d! he's far dafter than I.


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.


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.


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 rangèd 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:
No comfort but a hearty can,

When I think on John Highlandman.

Sing hey, &c.


A pigmy scraper wi' his fiddle,

Wha us'd at trystes an' fairs to driddle.

Her strappin limb and gausy middlė

(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 Apollo

Set off wi' allegretto glee

His giga solo.


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.


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.


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:


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.


The caird prevail'd-th' unblushing fair

In his embraces sunk;

Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair,

An' partly she was drunk:

1A peculiar sort of whisky so called, a great favorite with Poosie Nansie's clubs.-R. B.

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