LITMIR.BIZ

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I could meet a troop of hell,

       At the sound of a drum.

       Lal de daudle, &c.

      RECITATIVO.

      He ended; and kebars sheuk

       Aboon the chorus roar;

       While frighted rattons backward leuk,

       And seek the benmost bore;

       A fairy fiddler frae the neuk,

       He skirl’d out—encore!

       But up arose the martial Chuck,

       And laid the loud uproar.

      AIR.

      Tune—“Soldier laddie.”

      I once was a maid, tho’ I cannot tell when,

       And still my delight is in proper young men;

       Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie,

       No wonder I’m fond of a sodger laddie.

       Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

      The first of my loves was a swaggering blade,

       To rattle the thundering drum was his trade;

       His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy,

       Transported I was with my sodger laddie.

       Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

      But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch,

       The sword I forsook for the sake of the church;

       He ventur’d the soul, and I risk’d the body,

       ’Twas then I prov’d false to my sodger laddie.

       Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

      Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot,

       The regiment at large for a husband I got;

       From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready,

       I asked no more but a sodger laddie.

       Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

      But the peace it reduc’d me to beg in despair,

       Till I met my old boy in a Cunningham fair;

       His rags regimental they flutter’d so gaudy,

       My heart is rejoic’d at my sodger laddie.

       Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

      And now I have liv’d—I know not how long,

       And still I can join in a cup or a song;

       But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady,

       Here’s to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie.

       Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

      RECITATIVO.

      Poor Merry Andrew in the neuk,

       Sat guzzling wi’ a tinkler hizzie;

       They mind’t na wha the chorus teuk,

       Between themselves they were sae busy:

       At length wi’ drink and courting dizzy

       He stoitered up an’ made a face;

       Then turn’d, an’ laid a smack on Grizzie,

       Syne tun’d his pipes wi’ grave grimace.

      AIR.

      Tune—“Auld Sir Symon.”

      Sir Wisdom’s a fool when he’s fou,

       Sir Knave is a fool in a session;

       He’s there but a ‘prentice I trow,

       But I am a fool by profession.

      My grannie she bought me a beuk,

       And I held awa to the school;

       I fear I my talent misteuk,

       But what will ye hae of a fool?

      For drink I would venture my neck,

       A hizzie’s the half o’ my craft,

       But what could ye other expect,

       Of ane that’s avowedly daft?

      I ance was ty’d up like a stirk,

       For civilly swearing and quaffing;

       I ance was abused in the kirk,

       Fer touzling a lass i’ my daffin.

      Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport,

       Let naebody name wi’ a jeer;

       There’s ev’n I’m tauld i’ the court

       A tumbler ca’d the premier.

      Observ’d ye, yon reverend lad

       Maks faces to tickle the mob;

       He rails at our mountebank squad,

       Its rivalship just i’ the job.

      And now my conclusion I’ll tell,

       For faith I’m confoundedly dry;

       The chiel that’s a fool for himsel’,

       Gude L—d! he’s far dafter than I.

      RECITATIVO.

      Then neist outspak a raucle carlin,

       Wha kent fu’ weel to cleek the sterling,

       For monie a pursie she had hooked,

       And had in mony a well been ducked.

       Her dove had been a Highland laddie,

       But weary fa’ the waefu’ woodie!

       Wi’ sighs and sobs she thus began

       To wail her braw John Highlandman.

      AIR.

      Tune—“O an ye were dead, guidman.”

      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.

      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 none,

       My gallant braw John Highlandman.

       Sing, hey, &c.

      They banished him beyond the sea,

       But ere the bud was on the tree,

       Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,

       Embracing my John Highlandman.

       Sing, hey, &c.

      But, och! they catch’d him at the last,

       And bound him in a dungeon fast;

       My curse upon them every one,

       They’ve hang’d my braw John Highlandman.

       Sing, hey, &c.

      And now a widow, I must mourn,

       The pleasures that will ne’er return:

      

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