Her dove had been a Highland laddie, AIR. Tune-O an' ye were dead Gudeman. A Highland lad my love was born, CHORUS. Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman! Was match for my John Highlandman. With his philibeg an' tartan plaid, We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, They banish'd him beyond the sea, Sing, hey, &c. But, oh! they catch'd him at the last, My curse upon them ev'ry one, They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. And now a widow I must mourn When I think on my John Highlandman. RECITATIVO. A pigmy-scraper wi' his fiddle, He reach'd nae higher, Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle, An' blawn't on fire. Wi' hand on haunch, an' upward e'e, The wee Apollo Set off wi' Allegretto glee His giga solo. AIR. Tune-Whistle owre the lave o't. Let me ryke up to dight that tear, CHORUS. I am a fiddler to my trade, Was whistle o'er the lave o't. At kirns an' weddings we'se be there, Sae merrily's the banes we'll pyke, I am, &c. But bless me wi' your heaven o' charms, May whistle owre the lave o't. RECITATIVO. Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird, He swoor by a' was swearing worth, Wi' ghaistly e'e, poor tweedle-dee And pray'd for grace, wi' ruefu' face, AIR. Tune-Clout the Caudron. My bonny lass, I work in brass, I've travell'd round all Christian ground 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 I've ta'en the gold, &c. Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, Wi' a' his noise and caprin', An' take a share wi' those that bear An' by that stowp! my faith an' houpe, If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, May I ne'er weet my cragie. An' by that stowp, &c. RECITATIVO. The Caird prevail'd-th' unblushing fair In his embraces sunk, That show'd a man of spunk, To their health that night. But urchin Cupid shot a shaft Her Lord a wight o' + Homer's craft, He hirpled up, and lap like daft, O boot that night. He was a care-defying blade 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 had no wish but-to be glad His sang that night. AIR. Tune-For a' that an' a' that. I am a bard of no regard, Wi' gentle folks an' a' that: CHORUS. For a' that, an' a' that, An' twice as muckle's a' that; I never drank the Muses' stank, But there it streams, and richly reams, For a' that, &c. Great love I bear to a' the fair, For a' that, &c. In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, But for how lang the flie may stang, 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 here's the sex! I like the jads for a' that, |