Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport,
Let naebody name wi' a jeer;
There's ev'n, 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.
[POINT VI.]
RECITATIVO.
Then neist outspak a raucle carlin[10],
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[11]!
Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began,
To wail her braw John Highlandman.