by Robert Burns
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 it rejoic’d at a SODGER LADDIE.
And now I have liv’d—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.
RECITATIVO
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 an’ courting dizzy,
He stoiter’d up an’ made a face;
Then turn’d, an’ laid a smack on Grizzie,
Syne tun’d his pipes wi’ grave grimace.
AIR
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 towsing a lass i’ my daffin.
Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport,
Let nae body name wi’ a jeer;
There’s even, 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,
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,
Guid Lord, he’s far dafter than I.
RECITATIVO
Then niest outspak a raucle Carlin,
Wha ken’t 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!
Wi’ sighs an’ sobs she thus began
To wail her braw JOHN HIGHLANDMAN—
AIR
A HIGHLAND lad my Love was born,
The lalland laws he held in scorn;
But he still was faithfu’ to his clan,
My gallant, braw JOHN HIGHLANDMAN.
CHORUS
Sing hey my braw John Highlandman!
Sing ho my braw John Highlandman!
There’s not a lad in a’ the lan’
Was match for my John Highlandman.
With his Philibeg, an’ tartan Plaid,
An’ guid Claymore down by his side,
The ladies’ hearts he did trepan,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
We ranged a’ from Tweed to Spey,
An’ liv’d like lords an’ ladies gay:
For a lalland face he feared none,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
They banish’d him beyond the sea,
But ere the bud was on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
But Och! they catch’d him at the last,
And bound him in a dungeon fast,
My curse upon them every one,
They’ve hang’d my braw John Highlandman.
Sing hey, &c.
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.
Sing hey, &c.
RECITATIVO
A pigmy Scraper wi’ his Fiddle,
Wha us’d to trystes an’ fairs to driddle,
Her strappan limb an’ gausy middle,
(He reach’d nae higher)
Had hol’d his HEARTIE like a riddle,
An’ blawn’t on fire.
Wi’ hand on hainch, and upward e’e,
He croon’d his gamut, ONE, TWO, THREE,
Then in an ARIOSO key,
The wee Apollo
Set off wi’ ALLEGRETTO glee
His GIGA SOLO—
AIR
Let me ryke up to dight that tear,
An’ go wi’ me an’ be my DEAR;
An’ then your every CARE AN’ FEAR
May whistle owre the lave o’t.
CHORUS
I am a Fiddler to my trade,
An’ a’ the tunes that e’er I play’d,
The sweetest still to WIFE OR MAID,
Was whistle owre the lave o’t.
At KIRNS an’ WEDDINS we’se be there,
An’ O sae nicely’s we will fare!
We’ll bowse about till Dadie CARE
Sing whistle owre the lave o’t.
I am, &c.
Sae merrily’s the banes we’ll pyke,
An’ sun oursells about the dyke;
An’ at our leisure when ye like
We’ll whistle owre the lave o’t.
I am, &c.
But bless me wi’ your heav’n o’ charms,
An’ while I kittle hair on thairms
HUNGER, CAULD, an’ a’ sic harms
May whistle owre the lave o’t.
I am, &c.
RECITATIVO
Her charms had struck a sturdy CAIRD,
As weel as poor GUTSCRAPER;
He taks the Fiddler by the beard,
An’ draws a roosty rapier—
He swoor by a’ was swearing worth
To speet him like a Pliver,
Unless he would from that time forth
Relinquish her for ever:
Wi’ ghastly e’e poor TWEEDLEDEE
Upon his hunkers bended,
An’ pray’d for grace wi’ ruefu’ face,
An’ so the quarrel ended;
But tho’ his little heart did grieve,
When round the TINKLER prest her,
He feign’d to snirtle in his sleeve
When thus the CAIRD address’d her—
AIR
My bonie lass, I work in brass,
A TINKLER is my station;
I’ve travell’d round all Christian ground
In this my occupation;
I’ve ta’en the gold an’ been enroll’d
In many a noble squadron;
But vain they search’d when off I march’d
To go an’ clout the CAUDRON.
I’ve taen the gold, &c.
Despise that SHRIMP, that withered IMP,
With a’ his noise an’ cap’rin;
An’ take a share, with those that bear
The budget and the apron!
And by that STOWP! my faith an’ houpe,
And by that dear KILBAIGIE,
3
If e’er ye want, or meet with scant,
May I ne’er weet my CRAIGIE!
And by that Stowp, &c.
RECITATIVO
The Caird prevail’d—th’ unblushing fair
In his embraces sunk;
Partly wi’ LOVE o’ercome sae sair,
An’ partly she was drunk:
SIR VIOLINO with an air,
That show’d a man o’ spunk,
Wish’d UNISON between the PAIR,
An’ made the bottle clunk
To their health that night.
But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft,
That play’d a DAME a shavie—
The Fiddler RAK’D her, FORE AND AFT,
Behint the Chicken cavie:
Her lord, a wight of HOMER’s craft,
4
Tho’ limpan wi’ the Spavie,
He hirpl’d up an’ lap like daft,
An’ shor’d them DAINTY DAVIe
O’ boot that night.
He was a care-defying blade,
As ever BACCHUS listed!
Tho’ Fortune sair upon him laid,
His heart she ever miss’d it.
He had no WISH but—to be glad,
Nor WANT but—when he thristed;
He hated nought but—to be sad,
An’ thus the Muse suggested
His sang that night.
AIR
I am a BARD of no regard,
Wi’ gentle folks an’ a’ that;
But HOMER LIKE the glowran byke,
Frae town to town I draw that.
CHORUS
For a’ that an’ a’ that,
An’ twice as muckle’s a’ that,
I’ve lost but ANE, I’ve TWA behin’,
I’ve WIFE ENEUGH for a’ that.
I never drank the Muses’ STANK,
Castalia’s burn an’ a’ that,
But there it streams an’ richly reams,
My HELICON I ca’ that.
For a’ that, &c.
Great love I bear to all the FAIR,
Their humble slave and a’ that;
But lordly WILL, I hold it still
A mortal sin to thraw that.
For a’ that, &c.
In raptures sweet this hour we meet,
Wi’ mutual love an’ a’ that;
But for how lang the FLIE MAY STANG,
LET INCLINATION law that.
For a’ that, &c.
Their tricks an’ craft hae put me daft,
They’ve ta’en me in, an’ a’ that,
But clear your decks an’ here’s the SEX!
I like the jads for a’ that.
For a’ that an’ a’ that
An’ twice as muckle’s a’ that,
My DEAREST BLUID to do them guid,
They’re welcome till’t for a’ that.
RECITATIVO
So sang the BARD—and Nansie’s waws
Shook with a thunder of applause
Re-echo’d from each mouth!
They toom’d their pocks, they pawn’d their duds,
They scarcely left to coor their fuds
To quench their lowan drouth:
Then owre again the jovial thrang
The Poet did request
To lowse his pack an’ wale a sang,
A BALLAD o’ the best.
He, rising, rejoicing,
Between his TWA DEBORAHS,
Looks round him an’ found them
Impatient for the Chorus.
AIR
See the smoking bowl before us,
Mark our jovial, ragged ring!
Round and round take up the Chorus,
And in raptures let us sing—
CHORUS
A fig for those by law protected!
LIBERTY’s a glorious feast!
Courts for Cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the PRIEST.
What is TITLE, what is TREASURE,
What is REPUTATION’s care?
If we lead a life of pleasure,
’Tis no matter HOW or WHERE.
A fig, &c.
With the ready trick and fable
Round we wander all the day;
And at night, in barn or stable,
Hug our doxies on the hay.
A fig, &c.
Does the train-attended CARRIAGE
Thro’ the country lighter rove?
Does the sober bed of MARRIAGE
Witness brighter scenes of love?
A fig, &c.
Life is al a VARIORUM,
We regard not how it goes;
Let them cant about DECORUM,
Who have character to lose.
A fig, &c.
Here’s to BUDGETS, BAGS and WALLETS!
Here’s to all the wandering train!
Here’s our ragged BRATS and CALLETS!
One and all cry out, AMEN!
A fig for those by Law protected,
LIBERTY’s a glorious feast!
COURTS for Cowards were erected,
CHURCHES built to please the Priest.
Our poet suffered many insults to his freedom as a writer, perhaps none so exhausting as having to supplement the farm income by working for the Excise. The best of his biographers, Catherine Carswell, writes beautifully of Burns at the moment of capture: ‘Pledged to subserviency as a petty official, like a man in a nightmare, helpless but exquisitely sentient, he watched the Muses waving their mocking farewell from a far distance.’ Burns’s health was ruined by his labours for the Tax: long days and comfortless journeys on horseback, soaked to the skin as he checked the contents of old women’s barrels, he hated a job so meanly rigged against his best instincts, drawing an annual percentage from the joys of life.
The Deil’s Awa wi’ the Exciseman
The deil cam fiddlin thro’ the town,
And danc’d awa wi’ th’ Exciseman;
And ilka wife cries, auld Mahoun,
I wish you luck o’ the prize, man.
CHORUS
The deil’s awa, the deil’s awa,
The deil’s awa wi’ th’ Exciseman,
He’s danc’d awa, he’s danc’d awa,
He’s danc’d awa wi’ th’ Exciseman.
We’ll mak our maut and we’ll brew our drink,
We’ll laugh, sing, and rejoice, man;
And mony braw thanks to the meikle black deil,
That danc’d awa wi’ th’ Exciseman.
The deil’s awa, &c.
There’s threesome reels, there’s foursome reels,
There’s hornpipes and strathspeys, man,
But the ae best dance e’er cam to the Land
Was, the deil’s awa wi’ th’ Exciseman.
The deil’s awa, &c.
You’ll never find a better song to be sung by a trio of drunks than ‘Willie Brew’d a Peck o’ Maut’. The song can actually make you thirsty for a drink, and even more for a blind night in the company of the like-minded. The moon sits blinking in the ‘lift’, a right good word for the sky, and a word well used more than a hundred years later in the lyrics of Hugh MacDiarmid, whose drunk man looking at the thistle might have fallen through the years to bump down with the sort of hangover brewed by Willie’s malt.
