Sae merrily's the banes we'll pyke, An' sun oursells about the dyke; An' at our leisure when ye like We'll--whistle owre the lave o't.-- _I am, &c._ But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms, And while I kittle * hair on thairms, Hunger, cauld, an' 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 _Gutscraper_; He taks the fiddler by the beard, An' draws a roosty rapier-- He swoor by a' was swearing worth, To speet him like a pli ver, Unless he would from that time forth Relinquish her for ever: [Illustration: 042] Wi' ghastly e'e, poor _tweedle-dee_, Upon his hunkers*** bended, An' pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face, An' so the quarrel ended; But tho' his little heart did grieve, When round the _tinker_ prest her, He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, When thus the _Caird_ address'd her * While I rub a horse-hair bow upon cat-gut. ** Tinker. ***Haunches. AIR. _Tune_--Clout the Caudron. I.. 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 ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd In many a noble squadron; But vain they search'd, when off I march'd To go an' clout the caudron. _I've ta 'en the gold, &c._ II. Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, With a' his noise an' caprin; An' take a share with those that bear The budget an' the apron! An' by that stowp, my faith an' houpe, An' by that dear Kilbaigie*! If e'er ye want, or meet with 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 sa 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. * A well known kind of whiskey. But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft, That play'd a dame a shavie-- A sailor rak'd her fore and aft, Behind the chicken cavie. Her lord a wight o' Homer's craft, Tho' limpan 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. AIR. _Tune_--for a' that, an' a' that.