Tune-"Clout the Cauldron."

My bonie 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, an' been enrolled
In many a noble squadron;
But vain they search'd when off I march'd
To go an' clout the cauldron.
I've taen the gold, &c.

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp,
With a' his noise an' cap'rin;
An' take a share with those that bear
The budget and the apron!
And by that stowp! my faith an' houp,
And by that dear Kilbaigie,*1
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant,
May I ne'er weet my craigie.
And 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 o' spunk,
Wish'd unison between the pair,
An' made the bottle clunk
To their health that night.

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft,
That play'd a dame a shavie-
The fiddler rak'd her, fore and aft,
Behint the chicken cavie.
Her lord, a wight of Homer's craft,*2
Tho' limpin wi' the spavie,
He hirpl'd up, an' lap like daft,
An' shor'd them Dainty Davie.
O' boot that night.

He was a care-defying blade
As ever Bacchus listed!
Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid,
His heart, she ever miss'd it.
He had no wish but-to be glad,
Nor want but-when he thirsted;
He hated nought but-to be sad,
An' thus the muse suggested
His sang that night.

[Footnote 1: A peculiar sort of whisky so called, a great favorite with Poosie
Nansie's clubs.-R. B.]
[Footnote 2: Homer is allowed to be the oldest ballad-singer on record.-R.
B.]