|
Part XIPart XI
Part XI
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
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.
But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch;
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church:
He ventur`d the soul, and I risked the body,
`Twas then I proved false to my sodger laddie.
Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot,
The regiment at large for a husband I got;
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready,
I asked no more but a sodger laddie.
But the peace it reduc`d me to beg in despair,
Till I met old boy in a Cunningham fair,
His rags regimental, they flutter`d so gaudy,
My heart it rejoic`d at a sodger laddie.
And now I have liv`d-I know not how long,
And still I can join in a cup and a song;
But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady,
Here`s to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie.
Recitativo
Poor Merry-Andrew, in the neuk,
Sat guzzling wi` a tinkler-hizzie;
They mind`t na wha the chorus teuk,
Between themselves they were sae busy:
At length, wi` drink an` courting dizzy,
He stoiter`d up an` made a face;
Then turn`d an` laid a smack on Grizzie,
Syne tun`d his pipes wi` grave grimace.
Air
Tune-"Auld Sir Symon."
Sir Wisdom`s a fool when he`s fou;
Sir Knave is a fool in a session;
He`s there but a `prentice I trow,
But I am a fool by profession.
My grannie she bought me a beuk,
An` I held awa to the school;
I fear I my talent misteuk,
But what will ye hae of a fool?
For drink I would venture my neck;
A hizzie`s the half of my craft;
But what could ye other expect
Of ane that`s avowedly daft?
I ance was tied up like a stirk,
For civilly swearing and quaffin;
I ance was abus`d i` the kirk,
For towsing a lass i` my daffin.
Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport,
Let naebody name wi` a jeer;
There`s even, I`m tauld, i` the Court
A tumbler ca`d the Premier.
Observ`d ye yon reverend lad
Mak faces to tickle the mob;
He rails at our mountebank squad, -
It`s rivalship just i` the job.
And now my conclusion I`ll tell,
For faith I`m confoundedly dry;
The chiel that`s a fool for himsel`,
Guid Lord! he`s far dafter than I.
Recitativo
Then niest outspak a raucle carlin,
Wha kent fu` weel to cleek the sterlin;
For mony a pursie she had hooked,
An` had in mony a well been douked;
Her love had been a Highland laddie,
But weary fa` the waefu` woodie!
Wi` sighs an` sobs she thus began
To wail her braw John Highlandman.
Air
Tune-"O, an ye were dead, Guidman."
A Highland lad my love was born,
The Lalland laws he held in scorn;
But he still was faithfu` to his clan,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
Chorus
Sing hey my braw John Highlandman!
Sing ho my braw John Highlandman!
There`s not a lad in a` the lan`
Was match for my John Highlandman.
With his philibeg an` tartan plaid,
An` guid claymore down by his side,
The ladies` hearts he did trepan,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
We ranged a` from Tweed to Spey,
An` liv`d like lords an` ladies gay;
For a Lalland face he feared none, -
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
They banish`d him beyond the sea.
But ere the bud was on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
But, och! they catch`d him at the last,
And bound him in a dungeon fast:
My curse upon them every one,
They`ve hang`d my braw John Highlandman!
Sing hey, &c.
And now a widow, I must mourn
The pleasures that will ne`er return:
The comfort but a hearty can,
When I think on John Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
Recitativo
A pigmy scraper wi` his fiddle,
Wha us`d at trystes an` fairs to driddle.
Her strappin limb and gausy middle
(He reach`d nae higher)
Had hol`d his heartie like a riddle,
An` blawn`t on fire.
Wi` hand on hainch, and upward e`e,
He croon`d his gamut, one, two, three,
Then in an arioso key,
The wee Apoll
Set off wi` allegretto glee
His giga solo.
Air
Tune-"Whistle owre the lave o`t."
Let me ryke up to dight that tear,
An` go wi` me an` be my dear;
An` then your every care an` fear
May whistle owre the lave o`t.
Chorus
I am a fiddler to my trade,
An` a` the tunes that e`er I played,
The sweetest still to wife or maid,
Was whistle owre the lave o`t.
At kirns an` weddins we`se be there,
An` O sae nicely`s we will fare!
We`ll bowse about till Daddie Care
Sing whistle owre the lave o`t.
I am, &c.
Sae merrily`s the banes we`ll pyke,
An` sun oursel`s 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,
An` 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 gut-scraper;
He taks the fiddler by the beard,
An` draws a roosty rapier-
He swoor, by a` was swearing worth,
To speet him like a pliver,
Unless he would from that time forth
Relinquish her for ever.
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 tinkler prest her,
He feign`d to snirtle in his sleeve,
When thus the caird address`d her:
Air
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.
[Footnote 1: A peculiar sort of whisky so called, a great favorite with Poosie
Nansie`s clubs.-R. B.]
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.
Air
Tune-"For a` that, an` a` that."
I am a Bard of no regard,
Wi` gentle folks an` a` that;
But Homer-like, the glowrin byke,
Frae town to town I draw that.
Chorus
For a` that, an` a` that,
An` twice as muckle`s a` that;
I`ve lost but ane, I`ve twa behin`,
I`ve wife eneugh for a` that.
[Footnote 2: Homer is allowed to be the oldest ballad-singer on record.-R.
B.]
I never drank the Muses` stank,
Castalia`s burn, an` a` that;
But there it streams an` richly reams,
My Helicon I ca` that.
For a` that, &c.
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, &c.
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, &c.
Their tricks an` craft hae put me daft,
They`ve taen me in, an` a` that;
But clear your decks, and here`s-"The Sex!"
I like the jads for a` that.
Chorus
For a` that, an` a` that,
An` twice as muckle`s a` that;
My dearest bluid, to do them guid,
They`re welcome till`t for a` that.
Recitativo
So sang the bard - and Nansie`s wa`s
Shook with a thunder of applause,
Re-echo`d from each mouth!
They toom`d their pocks, they pawn`d their duds,
They scarcely left to co`er their fuds,
To quench their lowin drouth:
Then owre again, the jovial thrang
The poet did request
To lowse his pack an` wale a sang,
A ballad o` the best;
He rising, rejoicing,
Between his twa Deborahs,
Looks round him, an` found them
Impatient for the chorus.
Air
tune-"Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses."
See the smoking bowl before us,
Mark our jovial ragged ring!
Round and round take up the chorus,
And in raptures let us sing-
Chorus
A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty`s a glorious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest.
What is title, what is treasure,
What is reputation`s care?
If we lead a life of pleasure,
`Tis no matter how or where!
A fig for, &c.
With the ready trick and fable,
Round we wander all the day;
And at night in barn or stable,
Hug our doxies on the hay.
A fig for, &c.
Does the train-attended carriage
Thro` the country lighter rove?
Does the sober bed of marriage
Witness brighter scenes of love?
A fig for, &c.
Life is al a variorum,
We regard not how it goes;
Let them cant about decorum,
Who have character to lose.
A fig for, &c.
Here`s to budgets, bags and wallets!
Here`s to all the wandering train.
Here`s our ragged brats and callets,
One and all cry out, Amen!
Chorus
A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty`s a glorious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest.
|
