But, oh! they catch'd him at the last, They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. And now a widow, I must mourn, When I think on John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c. RECITATIVO. A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, He reach'd na higher. Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle, An' blawn't on fire. Wi' hand on haunch, an' upward e'e, The wee Apollo Set off wi' Allegretto glee His giga solo. AIR. Tune.-Whistle o'er the lave o't." Let me ryke up to dight that tear, wi' me and be my dear, And go And then your every care and fear CHORUS. I am a fiddler to my trade, At kirns and weddings we'se be there, Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke, But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms, And while I kittle hair on thairms, Hunger, cauld, and 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, And draws a roosty rapier— He swoor by a' was swearing worth, Unless he wad from that time forth Wi' ghastly ee, poor tweedle-dee But tho' his little heart did grieve He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, AIR. Tune-" Clout the caudron." My bonny 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, I've been enroll'd In many a noble squadron: But vain they search'd, when off I march'd and clout the caudron. Το go I've taen the gold, &c. Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, Wi' a' his noise and caprin, 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 craigie An' by that stowp, &c. 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 of spunk, Wish'd unison between the pair, An' made the bottle clunk To their health that night. * A peculiar sort of whiskey. But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft, That play'd a dame a shavie, Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, O boot that night. He was a care-defying blade As ever Bacchus listed, Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid, 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 glowran byke, |