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Her dove had been a Highland laddie,
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie !
Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began
To wail ber braw John Highlandman,


Tune-O an' ye were dead Gudeman.
A Highland lad my love was born,
The Lalland laws be held in scorn ;
But he still was faithfu' to his clau,
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' gude claymore down by his side,
The ladies' hearts he did trepan,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.

Sing, hey, &c.
We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey,
An' liv'd like lords and ladies gay;
For a Lalland face he feared pone,
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 cheek the pearl-drops ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.

Sing, hey, &c.
But, oh! they catch'd him at the last,
And bound him in a dungeon fast
My curse upon them ev'ry one,
They've bang'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 cann,
When I think on my John Highlandman.

Sing, hey, &c.


A pigmy-scraper wi' his fiddle,
Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle,
Her strappan limb and gausy middle,

He reach'd nae higher, Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle,

An' blawn't on fire. Wir hand on haunch, an' upward e'e, He crooned 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 to be my dear,
And then your ev'ry 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 o'er the lave o't.

At kirns an' weddings we'se be there,
An' O! sae nicely's we will fare;
We'll bouse about till Daddie Care
Sings whistle owre the lave o't.

I am, &c.

am, &c.

Sae merrily's the banes we'll pyke,
An' sun oursels about the dyke,
An' at our leisure #bea we like
We'll whistle oore the lave o't.

But bless me wi' your heaven o'charms,
And while I kittle bair on thairms,
Hunger, cauld, an' a' sic harms,
May whistle ofre the lave o't.

I am, &c.


Her cbarms had struck a sturdy Caird,

As weel as poor Gutscraper;
He takes 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 for that time forth,

Relinquish her for ever.
Wi' ghaistly e'e, poor tweedle-dee

Upon bis hunkers bended,
And pray'd for grace, wi' ruefu' face,

And so the quarrel ended.
But tho' his little heart did grieve,

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

When thus the Caird address'd her.


Tune-Clout the Cautlron. My bonny lass, I work in brass,

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

In this my occupation. I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll’d

la mapy 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, &e.
Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp,

Wi' a' his noise and caprio',
An' take a share wi' those that bear

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

An' by that dear Keilbagie, *
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant,
May I ne'er weet my cragie.

An' by that stowp, &c.


The Caird prevail d—th' unblushing fair

In his embraces sunk,
Partly wi’love o'ercome sae sair,

An' partiy 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 urchin 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' limpiog wi’ the spavie,
He hirpled 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.

. A peculiar sort of whisky so called : a great favourite with Poosie's Nansie's clubs. + Homer is allowed to be the oldest ballad-singer on record. He bad no wish but to be glad

Nor want but-when he thirsted; He hated bought but-to be sad, And thus the muse suggested

His sang that night.


Tune-For a' that an' a' that.

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,


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.
I never drank the Muses' stank,

Castalio's burn an' a' that,
But there it streams, and richly reams,
My Helicon I ca' that.

For a' that, &c.
Great love I bear to a' the fair,

Their bumble slave an' a' that ;
But lordly will, I hold it still
A mortals in to thraw that.

For a' that, &c.
In raptures sweet, this hour we meet,

Wi' mutual love an'a' that;
But for how lang the flie may stang,
Let inclination law that.

for a' that, &c. Their tricks and craft have put me daft,

They've ta’en me in an'a' that;
But clear your decks, and frere's the sex!

I like the jads for a' that,

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