When lyart leaves bestrow the yird,
Or, wavering like the bauckie-bird,2
Bedim cauld Boreas' blast;
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte,3
5 And infant frosts begin to bite,
In hoary cranreuch1 drest;
Ae night at e'en a merry core
O' randie, gangrel' bodies,
In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore,8
To drink their orra duddies;9
Wi' quaffing and laughing,
They ranted1o an' they sang;
Wi' jumping an' thumping,
The vera girdle11 rang.
15 First, niest12 the fire, in auld red rags,
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags13
And knapsack a' in order;
His doxy14 lay within his arm;
Wi' usquebae15 an' blankets warm,
She blinket on her sodger.16
An' ay he gies the tozie drab17
And now I have liv'd-I know not how long! 80 And still I can join in a cup and a song; And whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady,
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie!
Poor Merry-Andrew in the neuk, Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler-hizzie,1 They mind't na wha the chorus teuk,
120 Then niest outspak a raucle carlin,1
Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterlin,2
For monie a pursie she had hooked,
An' had in monie a well been doukèd.
Her love had been a Highland laddie,
125 But weary fa' the waefu' woodie!3
Wi' sighs an' sobs she thus began
To wail her braw John Highlandman:-
AIR
Between themselves they were sae busy. At length with drink and courting dizzy, 130 He stoiter'd up an' made a face;
Then turn 'd, an' laid a smack on Grizzie, Synes tun'd his pipes wi' grave gri
TUNE-Auld Sir Symon
Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou;"
Sir Knave is a fool in a session;5
He's there but a prentice I trow,
But I am a fool by profession.
My grannie she bought me a beuk,
An' I held awa to the school;
I fear I my talent misteuk,
But what will ye hae of a fool? 100 For drink I wad venture my neck; A hizzie's the half of my craft; But what could ye other expect Of ane that's avowedly daft?
TUNE-O An' Ye Were Dead, Guidman A Highland lad my love was born, The Lalland laws he held in scorn, But he still was faithfu' to his clan, My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
Sing hey my braw John Highlandman!
Sing ho my braw John Highlandman!
There's not a lad in a' the lan'
Was match for my John Highlandman!
With his philibeg" an' tartan plaid,'
An' guid claymores down his side,
The ladies' hearts he did trepan,"
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
140 We rangèd a' from Tweed to Spey,10
An' liv'd like lords an' ladies gay;
For a Lalland face he feared one,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
They banish'd him beyond the sea,
145 But ere the bud was on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.
But, Och! they catch'd him at the last,
And bound him in a dungeon fast;
150 My curse upon them every one-
They've hang'd my braw John Highlard-
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