Tay-totals and chapels—the lot!
A leckturing, canting and fibbin',
The old zinging man is forgot.
The old zinging man is forgot.
I reckon, that wi' my brown fiddle,
I'd go from this cottage to that,
All the youngsters 'ud dance in the middle,
Their pulses and feet pit-a-pat.
I cu'd zing—if you'd stand me the liquor,
All night, and 'ud never give o'er;