Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/103

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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
53
But tho' his little heart did grieve When round the tinkler prest her, He feigned to snirtle in his sleeve, When thus the Caird address'd her:
AIR.Tune—'Clout the Cauldron.'
My bonnie 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, I've been enroll'd In many a noble squadron; But vain they search'd when off I march'd To go and clout the cauldron. I've ta'en the gold, etc.
Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, Wi' a' his noise an' cap'rin', And tak a share wi' those that bear The budget and the apron; And by that stowp, my faith and houp, And by that dear Kilbagie, If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, May I ne'er weet my craigie. And by that stoup, etc.
RECITATIVO.
The Caird prevail'd—th' unblushing fair In his embraces sunk,Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, And partly she was drunk.Sir Violino, with an air That show'd a man o' spunk, Wish'd unison between the pair, And 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 o' Homer's craft,Tho' limpin wi' the spavie, He hirpl'd up, an' lap like daft, And 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 nae wish, but—to be glad, Nor want but—when he thirsted, He hated nought but—to be sad, And thus the Muse suggested His sang that night.
AIR.
Tune—'For a' that, and a' that.'I am a bard of no regard Wi' gentlefolks, an' a' that; But Homer-like, the glowran byke, Frae town to town I draw that.
CHORUS.
For a' that, and a' that, And twice as meikle's a' that; I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', I've wife eneugh for a' that.
I never drank the Muses' stank, Castalia's burn, an' a' that; But there it streams and richly reams, My Helicon I ca' that. For a' that, etc.
Great love Idbear to a' the fair, Their humble slave an' a' that; But lordly will, I hold it still A mortal sin to thraw that. For a' that, etc.
In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, Wi' mutual love an' a' that; But for how lang the flie may stang, Let inclination law that. For a' that, etc.
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