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But though his little heart did grieve,
When round the tinkler pressed her,
He feigned to snirtle in his sleeve,
When thus the caird addressed her:


My bonny lass, I work in brass,

A tinkler is

my station;

I've travelled round all Christian ground, In this my occupation.

I've ta'en the gold, I've been enrolled

In many a noble squadron;

But vain they searched when off I marched

To go and clout the caudron.

I've ta'en the gold, &c.

Despise that shrimp, that withered imp,
Wi' a' his noise and caperin',

And tak a share wi' those that bear

The budget and the apron.

And by that stoup, my faith and houp,
An' by that dear Kilbagie,

If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant,

May I ne'er weet my cragie.

An' by that stoup, &c.


The caird prevailed-th' unblushing fair

In his embraces sunk,

Partly wi' love, o'ercome sa sair,

An' partly she was drunk.

Sir Violino, with an air

That showed a man of spunk, Wished union between the pair, An' made the bottle clunk

To their health that night.

But urchin Cupid shot a shaft,
That played a dame a shavie,
The fiddler raked her fore and aft,
Behint the chicken cavie.

Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft,
Though limpin' wi' the spavie,
He hirpled up, and lap like daft,
And shored them Dainty Davy
O' boot that night.

He was a care-defying blade
As ever Bacchus listed,
Though Fortune sair upon him laid,
His heart she ever missed it.
He had nae wish but-to be glad,
Nor want but-when he thirsted;
He hated nought but-to be sad,
And thus the Muse suggested

His sang that night.


I am a bard of no regard,

Wi' gentle folks, an' a' that;
But Homer-like, the glowran byke,
Frae town to town I draw that.

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 enough for a' that.

I never drank the Muses' stank,
Castalia's burn, an' a' that;

But there it streams, and richly reams,
My Helicon I ca' that.

Great love I bear to a' the fair,
Their humble slave, an' a' that;
But lordly will, I hold it still
A mortal sin to thraw that.

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.

Their tricks and craft ha'e put me daft,
They've ta'en me in, an' a' that;
But clear your decks, and here's the sex!
I like the jades for a' that.

For a' that, an' a' that,

An' twice as muckles's a' that;
My dearest bluid, to do them guid,
They're welcome till't for a' that.


So sang the bard-and Nancie's wa's
Shook wi' a thunder of applause,

Re-echoed from each mouth;

They toomed their pocks, an' pawned their duds,

They scarcely left to co'er their fuds,

To quench their lowan drouth.

Then owre again the jovial thrang

The poet did request,

To loose his pack an' wale a sang,
A ballad o' the best.

He, rising, rejoicing,

Between his two Deborahs,

Looks round him, and found them
Impatient for the chorus.


See the smoking bowl before us!
Mark our jovial ragged ring!
Round and round take up the chorus,
And in raptures let us sing.

A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty's a glorious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest.

What is title? what is treasure?
What is reputation's care?
If we lead a life of pleasure,
'Tis no matter how or where.

With the ready trick and fable,
Round we wander all the day?
And at night, in barn or stable,
Hug our doxies on the hay.

Does the train-attended carriage
Through the country lighter rove?
Does the sober bed of marriage
Witness brighter scenes of love?

Life is all a variorum,

We regard not how it goes; Let them cant about decorum Who have characters to lose.

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets!
Here's to all the wandering train!
Here's our ragged brats and callets!
One and all cry out-Amen!


WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers through the leafless bower;
When Phoebus gi'es a short-lived glower
Far south the lift,

Dim darkening through the flaky shower,
Or whirling drift:

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-choked,

Wild-eddying swirl,

Or through the mining outlet bocked,

Down headlong hurl.

List'ning the doors an' winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the ourie cattle,

Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle

O' winter war,

And through the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle,

Beneath a scar.

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing,
That, in the merry months o' spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,

What comes o' thee?

Whare wilt thou cower thy chittering wing,

An' close thy ee?

E'en you on murdering errands toiled,

Lone from your savage homes exiled,

The blood-stained roost and sheep-cote spoiled,

My heart forgets,

While pitiless the tempest wild

Sore on you beats.

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