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.”