But though his little heart did grieve, AIR. My bonny lass, I work in brass, A tinkler is my station; I've travelled round all Christian ground, I've ta'en the gold, I've been enrolled But vain they searched when off I marched go and clout the caudron. To I've ta'en the gold, &c. Despise that shrimp, that withered imp, And tak a share wi' those that bear And by that stoup, my faith and houp, If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, May I ne'er weet my cragie. An' by that stoup, &c. RECITATIVO. The caird prevailed-th' unblushing fair In his embraces sunk, 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, Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, He was a care-defying blade His sang AIR. I am a bard of no regard, Wi' gentle folks, an' a' 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, But there it streams, and richly reams, Great love I bear to a' the fair, In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, Their tricks and craft ha'e put me daft, For a' that, an' a' that, An' twice as muckles's a' that; RECITATIVO. So sang the bard-and Nancie's wa's 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. AIR. See the smoking bowl before us! A fig for those by law protected! What is title? what is treasure? With the ready trick and fable, Does the train-attended carriage 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! A WINTER NIGHT. WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure, Dim darkening through the flaky shower, Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, Wild-eddying swirl, Or through the mining outlet bocked, Down headlong hurl. List'ning the doors an' winnocks rattle, 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, 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. |