An’ a’ the tunes that e’er I play’d,
The sweetest still to wife or maid,
Was whistle owre the lave o’t.
But bless me wi’ your heav’n o’ charms,
And while I kittle hair on thairms,
Hunger, cauld, and a’ sic harms,
May whistle owre the lave o’t.
I am, etc.
[At the conclusion she sinks into his arms, and there is an altercation between the two Beggar women, the Old Beggar quieting them, and then there are cries from all to Burns.]
Now, Master, a song for a song, a taste of your quality, good liquor makes good tunes, a song, a song!