CHORUS.

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.

II.

At kirns an' weddings we'se be there,
An' O! sae nicely 's we will fair;
We'll bouse about till Daddie Care

Sing, whistle owre the lave o't.
I am, &c.

III.

Sae merrily's the banes we'll pyke,
An' sun oursells about the dyke,

An' at our leisure, when ye like,

We'll whistle owre the lave o't.

I am, &c.

IV.

But bless me wi' your heaven 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.

RECITATIVO.

Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird,
As weel as poor Gutscraper;
He taks the fiddler by the beard,
And 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,

And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face,
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.

AIR-CLOUT THE CAUDRON.

I.

My bonny lass I work in brass,

A tinker is my station;

I've travell❜d round all Christian ground

In this my occupation.

I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd
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.

II.

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp,

Wi' a' his noise an' caprin',

An' tak' a share wi' those that bear
The budget an' the apron.

An' by that stowp! my faith an' houpe,
An' by that dear Keilbaigie *,

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

An' by that stowp, &c.

RECITATIVO.

The Caird prevail'd-th' unblushing fair

In his embraces sunk,

* A peculiar sort of Whisky so called; a great favourite with Poosie-Nansie's clubs.

Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair,
An' partly she was drunk.
Sir Violino with an air,

That show'd a man of 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 o' Homer's craft,*
Tho' limping wi' the spavie,

He hirpl'd up, and 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.

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

He had no wish but-to be glad,
Nor want but-when he thirsted;
He hated nought but-to be sad,
And thus the Muse suggested

His sang that night.

AIR FOR A' THAT AN' A' THAT.

I.

I am a bard of no regard,

Wi' gentle folks, an' a' that;
But Homer-like, the glowran 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 enough for a' that.

II.

I never drank the Muses' stank,

Castalia's burn, an' a' that;