They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman.
And now a widow I must mourn
The pleasures that will ne'er return;
No comfort but a hearty can,
When I think on John Highlandman.
Recitativo
A pigmy scraper wi' his fiddle,
Wha used to trysts an' fairs to driddle, markets, toddle
Her strappin' limb an' gawsie middle buxom
(He reach'd nae higher)