AIR.

I.

A highland lad my love was born,
The Lalland laws he held in scorn;
But he still was faithfu' to his clan,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.

CHORUS.

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.
II.

With his philibeg, an' tartan plaid,
An' gude claymore down by his side,
The ladies' hearts' he did trepan,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.

III.

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey,
An' liv'd like lords and ladies gay;
For a Lalland face he feared none,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.

IV.

They banish'd him beyond the sea,
But ere the bud was on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.

V.

But O! they catch'd him at the last,
And bound him in a dungeon fast;

My curse upon them every one,

Sing, hey, &c.

Sing, hey, &c.

Sing, hey, &c.

They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman.

4*

Sing, hey, &c.

VI.

And now a widow, I must mourn
The pleasures that will ne'er return;
No comfort but a hearty can,
When I think on John Highlandman.

RECITATIVO.

A pigmy scraper wi' his fiddle,

Sing, hey, &c.

Wha us'd to trysts and fairs to driddle,
Her strappan limb and gaucy middle,

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,
He croon❜d his gamut, one, two, three,
Then in an Arioso key,

The wee Apollo

Set off wi' Allegretto glee

His giga solo.

AIR.

TUNE- Whistle o'er the lave o't.

I.

Let me ryke up to dight that tear,
An' go wi' me to be my dear,
An' then your ev'ry care and fear
May whistle o'er the lave o't.

CHORUS.

I am a fiddler to my trade,

And a' the tunes that e'er I play'd,
The sweetest still to wife or maid,
Was whistle o'er the lave o't.

II.

At kirns and weddings we'se be there,
And O! sae nicely's we will fare;

We'll house about till daddie Care
Sing whistle o'er the lave o't.

III.

I am, &c.

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

But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms,
And while I kittle hair on thairns,
Hunger, cauld, an' a' sic harms,
May whistle o'er the lave o't.

RECITATIVO.

I am, &c.

Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird,

As weel as poor gut-scraper;
He taks the fiddler by the beard,
And draws a rusty rapier.

He swore by a' was swearing worth,
To speet him like a pliver,

Unless he would, from that time forth,
Relinquish her forever.

Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee,
Upon his hunkers bended,

And pray'd for grace, wi' ruefu' face,
And so the quarrel ended.

But though is little heart did grieve,
When round the tinker press'd her
He feign'd to smirtle in his sleeve,

When thus the Caird address'd her

AIR.

TUNE-Clout the Caudron.'

I.

My bonnie 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 and clout the caudron.

I've ta'en the gold, &c.

II.

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp,
Wi' a' his noise and cap'rin,

And tak a share wi' those that bear
The budget and the apron.
And by that stowp! my faith and houp,
And by that dear kilbaigie,

If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant,

May I ne'er weet my craigie.

And by that stowp, &c.

RECITATIVO.

The Caird prevail'd-th' unblushing fair

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

An' partly she was drunk.

Sir Violina wi' an air

That show'd a man of spunk, Wish'd unison between the pair, And 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' limpin wi' the spavie,
He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft,
And 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.
He had nae wish, but-to be glad,
Nor want, but-when he thirsted!
He hated nought but-to be sad,
And thus the Muse suggested

AIR.

His sang that night.

TUNE- For a' that, and a' that.'

Wi' gentle folk, an' a' that;
But Homer-like the glowran byke,
Frae town to town I draw that.

CHORUS.

For a' that, and a' that,

And 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, and a' that;

But there it streams, and richly reams,
My Helicon I ca' that.

For a' that, &c.