Part 27

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a’, He aften did assist ye; For had ye staid hale weeks awa, Your wives they ne’er had miss’d ye.

Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press To school in bands thegither, O tread ye lightly on his grass,— Perhaps he was your father!

Adam Armour’s Prayer

Gude pity me, because I’m little! For though I am an elf o’ mettle, An’ can, like ony wabster’s shuttle, Jink there or here, Yet, scarce as lang’s a gude kail-whittle, I’m unco queer.

An’ now Thou kens our waefu’ case; For Geordie’s jurr we’re in disgrace, Because we stang’d her through the place, An’ hurt her spleuchan; For whilk we daurna show our face Within the clachan.

An’ now we’re dern’d in dens and hollows, And hunted, as was William Wallace, Wi’ constables-thae blackguard fallows, An’ sodgers baith; But Gude preserve us frae the gallows, That shamefu’ death!

Auld grim black-bearded Geordie’s sel’— O shake him owre the mouth o’ hell! There let him hing, an’ roar, an’ yell Wi’ hideous din, And if he offers to rebel, Then heave him in.

When Death comes in wi’ glimmerin blink, An’ tips auld drucken Nanse the wink, May Sautan gie her doup a clink Within his yett, An’ fill her up wi’ brimstone drink, Red-reekin het.

Though Jock an’ hav’rel Jean are merry— Some devil seize them in a hurry, An’ waft them in th’ infernal wherry Straught through the lake, An’ gie their hides a noble curry Wi’ oil of aik!

As for the jurr-puir worthless body! She’s got mischief enough already; Wi’ stanged hips, and buttocks bluidy She’s suffer’d sair; But, may she wintle in a woody, If she wh-e mair!

The Jolly Beggars: A Cantata^1

Recitativo

When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, Or wavering like the bauckie-bird, Bedim cauld Boreas’ blast; When hailstanes drive wi’ bitter skyte, And infant frosts begin to bite, In hoary cranreuch drest; Ae night at e’en a merry core O’ randie, gangrel bodies, In Poosie-Nansie’s held the splore, To drink their orra duddies; Wi’ quaffing an’ laughing, They ranted an’ they sang, Wi’ jumping an’ thumping, The vera girdle rang,

First, neist the fire, in auld red rags, Ane sat, weel brac’d wi’ mealy bags,

And knapsack a’ in order; His doxy lay within his arm; Wi’ usquebae an’ blankets warm She blinkit on her sodger; An’ aye he gies the tozie drab The tither skelpin’ kiss, While she held up her greedy gab, Just like an aumous dish; Ilk smack still, did crack still, Just like a cadger’s whip; Then staggering an’ swaggering He roar’d this ditty up—

Air

Tune—“Soldier’s Joy.”

I am a son of Mars who have been in many wars, And show my cuts and scars wherever I come; This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. Lal de daudle, &c.

My ’prenticeship I past where my leader breath’d his last, When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram: and I served out my trade when the gallant game was play’d, And the Morro low was laid at the sound of the drum.

I lastly was with Curtis among the floating batt’ries, And there I left for witness an arm and a limb; Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, I’d clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum.

And now tho’ I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg, And many a tatter’d rag hanging over my bum, I’m as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet, As when I used in scarlet to follow a drum.

What tho’ with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks, Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home, When the t’other bag I sell, and the t’other bottle tell, I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of a drum.

Recitativo

He ended; and the kebars sheuk, Aboon the chorus roar; While frighted rattons backward leuk, An’ seek the benmost bore: A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, He skirl’d out, encore! But up arose the martial chuck, An’ laid the loud uproar.

Air

Tune—“Sodger Laddie.”

I once was a maid, tho’ I cannot tell when, And still my delight is in proper young men; Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, No wonder I’m fond of a sodger laddie, Sing, lal de lal, &c.

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, To rattle the thundering drum was his trade; His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, Transported I was with my sodger laddie.