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And now a widow I must mourn
Departed joys that 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 to trystes and fairs to driddle,
Her strappen limb an' gausy middle, ,

(He reach'd nae higher,) Had hold his heartie like a riddle,

An' blawn't on fire.

W' hand on hainch, an' 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.



Let me ryke up to dight that tear,
An' go wi' me an' be my dear;
An' then your every care and fear

May whistle owre the lave o't.


I am a fiddler to my trade,
An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd,
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 Dadie Care
Sing whistle owre the lave o't.





Sae merrily's the banes we'll pyke,

An' sun oursells about the dyke; An' at our leisure when yé like We'll-whistle owre the lave o't.

I am, &c.


But bless me wi' your heav'n o'charms,

And 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 Gutscraper ;
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 tweedledee,

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

An' so the quarrel ended;
But tho' his little heart did grieve,

When round the tinker prest her,
He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve

When thus the Caird address'd her.




My bonie lass I work in brass,

A tinkler is my station;
I've travellid round all Christian ground

In this my occupation;
I've ta’en the gold, I've been enrolld

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

I've ta’en the gold, &c.


Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp,

With a' his noise an' caprin ;*
An' take a share with those that bear

The budget an' the apron!
An' by that stowp! my faith an' houpe,

An' by that dear Kilbaigie!

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If e'er ye want, or meet with scant,
May I ne'er weet my craigie.

An' 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:
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-
A Sailor


Her lord a wight o’ Homer's* craft,

Tho' limpan wi' the spavie,
He hirpld up an' lap like daft,
An' shor’d them Dainty Davie

O'boot that night.

* Homer is allowed to be the oldest ballad-singer on record.

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