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And now a widow I must mourn
Sing, hey, &c.
A pigmy scraper wi' his fiddle,
(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,
The wee Apollo
His giga solo.
Tune-WHISTLE OWRE THE LAVE O'T.
Let me ryke up to dight that tear,
May whistle owre the lave o't.
I am a fiddler to my trade,
Was, whistle owre the lave o't.
At kirns an' weddins we'se be there,
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,
I am, &c.
Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird,
As weel as poor Gutscraper ;
To speet him like a pliver,
Relinquish her for ever:
Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedledee,
Upon his hunkers bended,
An' so the quarrel ended;
When round the tinker prest her,
When thus the Caird address'd her.
Tune-CLOUT TÆE CAUDRON.
My bonie lass I work in brass,
A tinkler is my station;
In this my occupation;
In many a noble squadron;
I've ta’en the gold, &c.
Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp,
With a' his noise an' caprin ;*
The budget an' the apron!
An' by that dear Kilbaigie!
If e'er ye want, or meet with scant,
An' by that stowp, &c.
The Caird prevail'd--th' unblushing fair
In his embraces sunk;
An' partly she was drunk:
That show'd a man o'spunk,
To their health that night.
But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft,
That play'd a dame a shavie-
Her lord a wight o’ Homer's* craft,
Tho' limpan wi' the spavie,
O'boot that night.
* Homer is allowed to be the oldest ballad-singer on record.