LITMIR.BIZ

      A pigmy scraper, wi’ his fiddle,

      Wha us’d at trysts and fairs to driddle,

      Her strappan limb and gausy middle

      He reach’d na higher,

      Had hol’d his heartie like a riddle,

      An’ blawn’t on fire.

      Wi’ hand on hainch, 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.

      Tune—“Whistle o’er the lave o’t.”

      Let me ryke up to dight that tear,

      And go wi’ me and be my dear,

      And then your every 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 owre the lave o’t.

      At kirns and weddings we’se be there,

      And O! sae nicely’s we will fare;

      We’ll house about till Daddie Care

      Sings whistle owre the lave o’t

      I am, &c.

      Sae merrily the banes we’ll byke,

      And sun oursells about the dyke,

      And at our leisure, when ye like,

      We’ll whistle owre the lave o’t.

      I am, &c.

      But bless me wi’ your heav’n o’ charms,

      And while I kittle hair on thairms,

      Hunger, cauld, and a’ sic harms,

      May whistle owre the lave o’t.

      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 roosty rapier—

      He swoor by a’ was swearing worth,

      To speet him like a pliver,

      Unless he wad 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,

      And sae the quarrel ended.

      But tho’ his little heart did grieve

      When round the tinkler prest her,

      He feign’d to snirtle in his sleeve,

      When thus the caird address’d her:

      Tune—“Clout the Caudron.”

      My bonny lass, I work in brass,

      A tinkler is my station:

      I’ve travell’d round all Christian ground

      In this my occupation:

      I’ve taen the gold, an’ been enrolled

      In many a noble sqadron:

      But vain they search’d, when off I march’d

      To go and clout the caudron.

      I’ve taen the gold, &c.

      Despise that shrimp, that wither’d imp,

      Wi’ a’ his noise and caprin,

      And tak a share wi’ those that bear

      The budget and the apron.

      And by that stoup, my faith and houp,

      An’ by that dear Kilbaigie,[5]

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

      May I ne’er weet my craigie.

      An’ by that stoup, &c.

      The caird prevail’d—th’ unblushing fair

      In his embraces sunk,

      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 urchin Cupid shot a shaft,

      That play’d a dame a shavie,

      A sailor 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,

      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

      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

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