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*, 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** sheuk Aboon the chorus roar; While frighted rattons backward leuk, An' seek the benmost bore***; 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_.
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._
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.