We ranged a’ from Tweed to Spey,
     An’ liv’d like lords an’ ladies gay;
     For a Lalland face he feared none,—­
     My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 
     Sing hey, &c.

     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. 
     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: 
     The comfort but a hearty can,
     When I think on John Highlandman. 
     Sing hey, &c.

     Recitativo

     A pigmy scraper wi’ his fiddle,
     Wha us’d at trystes an’ fairs to driddle. 
     Her strappin limb and gausy middle
     (He reach’d nae higher)
     Had hol’d his heartie like a riddle,
     An’ blawn’t on fire.

     Wi’ hand on hainch, and upward e’e,
     He croon’d his gamut, one, two, three,
     Then in an arioso key,
     The wee Apoll
     Set off wi’ allegretto glee
     His giga solo.

     Air

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

     Let me ryke up to dight that tear,
     An’ go wi’ me an’ be my dear;
     An’ then your every care an’ fear
     May whistle owre the lave o’t.

     Chorus

     I am a fiddler to my trade,
     An’ a’ the tunes that e’er I played,
     The sweetest still to wife or maid,
     Was whistle owre the lave o’t.

     At kirns an’ weddins we’se be there,
     An’ O sae nicely’s we will fare! 
     We’ll bowse about till Daddie Care
     Sing whistle owre the lave o’t. 
     I am, &c.

     Sae merrily’s the banes we’ll pyke,
     An’ sun oursel’s about the dyke;
     An’ 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,
     An’ while I kittle hair on thairms,
     Hunger, cauld, an’ a’ sic harms,
     May whistle owre the lave o’t. 
     I am, &c.

     Recitativo

     Her charms had struck a sturdy caird,
     As weel as poor gut-scraper;
     He taks the fiddler by the beard,
     An’ draws a roosty rapier—­
     He swoor, by a’ was swearing worth,
     To speet him like a pliver,
     Unless he would from that time forth
     Relinquish her for ever.

     Wi’ ghastly e’e poor tweedle-dee
     Upon his hunkers bended,
     An’ pray’d for grace wi’ ruefu’ face,
     An’ so 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: