Air

     Tune—­“Clout the Cauldron.”

     My bonie 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 squadron;
     But vain they search’d when off I march’d
     To go an’ clout the cauldron. 
     I’ve taen the gold, &c.

     Despise that shrimp, that wither’d imp,
     With a’ his noise an’ cap’rin;
     An’ take a share with those that bear
     The budget and the apron! 
     And by that stowp! my faith an’ houp,
     And by that dear Kilbaigie,^1
     If e’er ye want, or meet wi’ scant,
     May I ne’er weet my craigie. 
     And by that stowp, &c.

     [Footnote 1:  A peculiar sort of whisky so called,
      a great favorite with Poosie Nansie’s clubs.—­R.B.]

     Recitativo

     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 o’ spunk,
     Wish’d unison between the pair,
     An’ made the bottle clunk
     To their health that night.

     But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft,
     That play’d a dame a shavie—­
     The fiddler rak’d her, fore and aft,
     Behint the chicken cavie. 
     Her lord, a wight of Homer’s craft,^2
     Tho’ limpin wi’ the spavie,
     He hirpl’d up, an’ lap like daft,
     An’ 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 no wish but—­to be glad,
     Nor want but—­when he thirsted;
     He hated nought but—­to be sad,
     An’ thus the muse suggested
     His sang that night.

     Air

     Tune—­“For a’ that, an’ a’ that.”

     I am a Bard of no regard,
     Wi’ gentle folks an’ a’ that;
     But Homer-like, the glowrin byke,
     Frae town to town I draw that.

     Chorus

     For a’ that, an’ a’ that,
     An’ twice as muckle’s a’ that;
     I’ve lost but ane, I’ve twa behin’,
     I’ve wife eneugh for a’ that.

     [Footnote 2:  Homer is allowed to be the
      oldest ballad-singer on record.—­R.B.]

     I never drank the Muses’ stank,
     Castalia’s burn, an’ a’ that;
     But there it streams an’ richly reams,
     My Helicon I ca’ that. 
     For a’ that, &c.

     Great love Idbear to a’ the fair,
     Their humble slave an’ a’ that;
     But lordly will, I hold it still
     A mortal sin to thraw that. 
     For a’ that, &c.

     In raptures sweet, this hour we meet,
     Wi’ mutual love an’ a’ that;
     But for how lang the flie may stang,
     Let inclination law that. 
     For a’ that, &c.