Part 1 — POINT V.

When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, Or wavering like the Bauckie-bird[1], Bedim cauld Boreas' blast; When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte, And infant frosts begin to bite, In hoary cranreuch drest; Ae night at e'en a merry core O' randie, gangrel bodies, In Posie-Nansie's[2] held the splore[3], To drink their orra duddies[4]: Wi' quaffing, and laughing, They ranted an' they sang; Wi' jumping, an' thumping, The vera girdle rang. First, neist the fire, in auld red rags, Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, And knapsack a' in order; His doxy lay within his arm, Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm, She blinket on her sodger: An' ay he gies the tozie drab The tither skelpan kiss, While she held up her greedy gab Just like an aumous[5] dish: Ilk smack still, did crack still, Just like a cadger's[6] whip; Then staggering, an' swaggering, He roar'd this ditty up—

I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars, And shew 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; I served out my trade, when the gallant game was play'd, And the Moro 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'll 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 ——, I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my callet[7], As when I us'd 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 tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell, I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of a drum.

He ended; and the kebars[8] sheuk Aboon the chorus roar; While frighted rattons backward leuk, An' seek the benmost bore[9]; A Merry Andrew i' the neuk, He skirl'd out, encore! But up arose the martial chuck, An' laid the loud uproar.

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 was I 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 prov'd 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 my old boy at a Cunningham fair; His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie.

And now I have lived—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. Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

Poor Merry Andrew in the neuk Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie; They mind't na wha the chorus teuk, Between themsels they were sae busy. At length wi' drink and courting dizzy, He stoiter'd up an' made a face; Then turn'd an' laid a smack on Grizzy, Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace.

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 ty'd up like a stirk, For civilly swearing and quaffing; I ance was abus'd i' the Kirk, For towzing 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 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.