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 [Footnote 1: Not published by Burns.] 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