EXTEMPORE, Written in answer to a Card from an intimate of BURNS, wish ing him to spend an hour at a Tavern with him. THE King's most humble servant, I Can scarcely spare a minute; VERSES WRITTEN ON AWINDOW OF THE INN AT CARRON. WE came nae here to view your warks, In hopes to be more wise, It may be nae surprise : But when we tirled at your door, THE JOLLY BEGGARS. A CANTATA. RECITATIVO. WHEN lyart leaves bestrew the yird, Or wavering like the Bauckie-bird,* The old Scotch name for the Bat Ae night at e'en a merry core In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, An' ay he gies the ozie drab, While she held up her greedy gab Ilk smack still, did crack still, AIR. Tune-Soldier's Joy. I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars, And show my cuts and scars wherever I come; This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. Lal de daudle, &c. My prenticeship I past where my leader breath'd bis last, When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram; I serv'd out my trade when the gallant game was play'd, And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum. Lal de daudle, &c. 1 1 lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt❜ries, Lal de daudle, &c. And now tho' I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg, And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my callet, As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum. Lal de daudle, &c. What tho' with boary locks, I must stand the winter shocks, Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home, When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell, I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of the drum. Lal de daudle, &c. RECITATIVO. He ended; and the kebars sheuk, While frighted rattongs backward leuk, A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, He thirled out encore ! But up arose the martial chuck, AIR. Tune-Soldier Laddie. I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, Sing, Lal de lal, &c. The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, Sing, Lal de lal, &c. But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, Sing, Bal de lal, &c. But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, Sing, Lal de lal, &c. And now I have liv'd-I know not how long, But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady, Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. Sing, Lal de lal, &c. RECITATIVO. Poor merry Andrew i' the neuk, Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace. AIR. Tune Auld Sir Simon. Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, But what will ye hae of a fool. For towzling a lass i' my daffin. There's ev'n I'm tald i' the court, Observ'd ye yon reverend lad, RECITATIVO. Then niest outspak a rancle carlin, |