The Complete Works. Robert Burns

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The Complete Works - Robert Burns

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And the tother bottle tell,

       I could meet a troop of hell,

       At the sound of a drum.

       Lal de daudle, &c.

      RECITATIVO.

      He ended; and kebars sheuk

       Aboon the chorus roar;

       While frighted rattons backward leuk,

       And seek the benmost bore;

       A fairy fiddler frae the neuk,

       He skirl’d out—encore!

       But up arose the martial Chuck,

       And laid the loud uproar.

      AIR.

      Tune—“Soldier 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 dal, &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.

       Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

      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 risk’d the body,

       ’Twas then I prov’d false to my sodger laddie.

       Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

      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.

       Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

      But the peace it reduc’d me to beg in despair,

       Till I met my old boy in a Cunningham fair;

       His rags regimental they flutter’d so gaudy,

       My heart is rejoic’d at my sodger laddie.

       Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

      And now I have liv’d—I know not how long,

       And still I can join in a cup or a song;

       But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady,

       Here’s to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie.

       Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

      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 and courting dizzy

       He stoitered 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,

       And 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 o’ my craft,

       But what could ye other expect,

       Of ane that’s avowedly daft?

      I ance was ty’d up like a stirk,

       For civilly swearing and quaffing;

       I ance was abused in the kirk,

       Fer touzling a lass i’ my daffin.

      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

       Maks faces to tickle the mob;

       He rails at our mountebank squad,

       Its 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’,

       Gude L—d! he’s far dafter than I.

      RECITATIVO.

      Then neist outspak a raucle carlin,

       Wha kent fu’ weel to cleek the sterling,

       For monie a pursie she had hooked,

       And had in mony a well been ducked.

       Her dove had been a Highland laddie,

       But weary fa’ the waefu’ woodie!

       Wi’ sighs and sobs she thus began

       To wail her braw John Highlandman.

      AIR.

      Tune—“O an ye were dead, guidman.

      A

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