182

And now I have liv'd-I know not how long! 80 And still I can join in a cup and a song; And whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady,

85

90

95

Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie!

Sing, lal de dal, etc.

RECITATIVO

Poor Merry-Andrew in the neuk, Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler-hizzie,1 They mind't na wha the chorus teuk,

RECITATIVO

120 Then niest outspak a raucle carlin,1
Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterlin,2
For monie a pursie she had hooked,
An' had in monie a well been doukèd.
Her love had been a Highland laddie,
125 But weary fa' the waefu' woodie!3
Wi' sighs an' sobs she thus began
To wail her braw* John Highlandman:-
AIR

mace:

AIR

TUNE-Auld Sir Symon

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou;1
Sir Knave is a fool in a session;5
He's there but a prentice I trow,

But I am a fool by profession.

My grannie she bought me a beuk,
An' I held awa to the school;

I fear I my talent misteuk,

But what will ye hae" of a fool? 100 For drink I wad venture my neck; A hizzie's the half of my craft; But what could ye other expect Of ane that's avowedly daft?

135

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!

10

With his philibeg an' tartan plaid,"
An' guid claymores down his side,
The ladies' hearts he did trepan,"
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
140 We rangèd a' from Tweed to Spey,1
An' liv'd like lords an' ladies gay;
For a Lalland face he feared none,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
They banish'd him beyond the sea,
145 But ere the bud was on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.

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

150 My curse upon them every one-
They've hang'd my braw John Highland-

240

245

But hurchin' Cupid shot a shaft,

That play'd a dame a shavie ;2
The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft,
Behint the chicken cavie.3

Her lord, a wight of Homer's craft,+
Tho' limping wi' the spavie,5
He hirpl'd up, an' lap like daft,"
An' shor'd them "Dainty Davie"
O' boot10 that night.

He was a care-defying blade
As ever Bacchus listed!11
Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid,
His heart she ever miss'd it.

250 He had nae wish but-to be glad,
Nor want but-when he thirsted;
He hated nought but-to be sad,
An' thus the Muse suggested

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet,
Wi' mutual love, an' a' that;
But for how lang the flie may stang,1
Let inclination law2 that!

275 Their tricks an' craft hae put me daft,3
They've taen me in, an' a' that;
But clear your decks, an' here's the sex!
I like the jads for a' that.

280

285

290

295

300

10 to boot

1 enlisted, or enrolled, as a follower

12 staring crowd

13 as much as

1 pool; ditch 15 rivulet

16 foams (He refers to ale as his source of inspiration.)

17 thwart

310

20

The twa appear'd like sisters twin,
In feature, form, an' claes;1
Their visage wither'd, lang, an' thin,
An' sour as onie slaes:2

The third cam up, hap-step-an '-lowp,3
As light as onie lambie,

25 An' wi' a curchie low did stoop,
As soon as e'er she saw me,
Fu' kind that day.

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, "Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me;

30 I'm sure I've seen that bonie face,
But yet I canna name ye."'
Quo' she, an' laughin as she spak,
An' taks me by the han's,

35

40

45

"Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck" Of a' the Ten Comman's

A screed some day.

"My name is Fun-your cronie dear, The nearest friend ye hae;

An' this is Superstition here,

An' that's Hypocrisy.

I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,

To spend an hour in daffin:7

Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair,
We will get famous laughin
At them this day."

Quoth I, "Wi' a' my heart, I'll do 't;
I'll get my Sunday's sark10 on,
An' meet you on the holy spot;

Faith, we'se hae11 fine remarkin!'' 50 Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time,12 An' soon I made me ready;

For roads were clad, frae side to side,
Wi' monie a wearie body,

In droves that day.

65

When by the plate we set our nose,
Weel heaped up wi' ha 'pence,

A greedy glowr,1 black-bonnet2 throws,
An' we maun draw our tippence.

Then in we go to see the show:

On ev'ry side they're gath'rin;

3

110

Hear how he clears the points o' faith
Wi' rattlin an' thumpin!

Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,

He's stampin and he's jumpin! His lengthen'd chin, his turn 'd-up snout, His eldritch1 squeel an' gestures,

stools,

An' some are busy bleth'rin*

Right loud that day.

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs,

An' screen our countra gentry;

75 There Racer Jess, and twa-three whores, Are blinkin at the entry. Here sits a raw of tittlin' jads,"

80

85

90

Wi' heavin breasts an' bare neck; An' there a batch o' wabster lads, Blackguardin frae Kilmarnock, For fun this day.

Here some are thinkin on their sins,
An' some upo' their claes;
Ane curses feet that fyl'd' his shins,
Anither sighs an' prays:

On this hand sits a chosen swatch,8
Wi' screw'd-up, grace-proud faces;
On that a set o' chaps, at watch,
Thrang winkin on the lasses

To chairs that day.

120

125

130

135

Like cantharidian plaisters,
On sic3 a day!

But hark! the tent has chang'd its

voice;

There's peace an' rest nae langer:
For a' the real judges rise,

They canna sit for anger.

Smith opens out his cauld harangues
On practice and on morals;
An' aff the godly pour in thrangs,
To gie the jars an' barrels
A lift that day.

What signifies his barren shine,
Of moral pow'rs an' reason?
His English style, an' gesture fine,
Are a' clean out o' season.
Like Socrates or Antonine,

Or some auld pagan heathen,
The moral man he does define,
But ne'er a word o' faith in
That's right that day.

In guid time comes an antidote
Against sic poison'd nostrum ;*
For Peebles, frae the water-fit,"
Ascends the holy rostrum:

140 See, up he's got the word o' God,
An' meek an' mim" has view'd it,
While Common Sense has taen the road,
An' aff, an' up the Cowgate

Fast, fast, that day.

145 Wee Miller niest the guard relieves, An' orthodoxy raibles,