But the peace it reduc’d me to beg in despair,
     Till I met old boy in a Cunningham fair,
     His rags regimental, they flutter’d so gaudy,
     My heart it rejoic’d at a sodger laddie.

     And now I have liv’d—­I know not how long,
     And still I can join in a cup and a song;
     But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady,
     Here’s to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie.

     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 an’ courting dizzy,
     He stoiter’d 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,
     An’ 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 of my craft;
     But what could ye other expect
     Of ane that’s avowedly daft?

     I ance was tied up like a stirk,
     For civilly swearing and quaffin;
     I ance was abus’d i’ the kirk,
     For towsing a lass i’ my daffin.

     Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport,
     Let naebody name wi’ a jeer;
     There’s even, I’m tauld, i’ the Court
     A tumbler ca’d the Premier.

     Observ’d ye yon reverend lad
     Mak faces to tickle the mob;
     He rails at our mountebank squad,—­
     It’s 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’,
     Guid Lord! he’s far dafter than I.

     Recitativo

     Then niest outspak a raucle carlin,
     Wha kent fu’ weel to cleek the sterlin;
     For mony a pursie she had hooked,
     An’ had in mony a well been douked;
     Her love had been a Highland laddie,
     But weary fa’ the waefu’ woodie! 
     Wi’ sighs an’ 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’ guid claymore down by his side,
     The ladies’ hearts he did trepan,
     My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 
     Sing hey, &c.