AIR
Tune: O, an ye were dead, Gudeman

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.

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.

With his philibeg an tartan plaid,

An guid claymore down by his side,

The ladies’ hearts he did trepan,

My gallant, braw John Highlandman.

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.

They banished him beyond the sea,

But ere the bud was on the tree,

Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,

Embracing my John Highlandman.

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.

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.

RECITAVO

A pigmy scraper wi a fiddle,

Wha us’d to trystes an fairs to driddle,

Her strappin limb an gawsie 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
Tune: Whistle owre the lave o’t

CHORUS

Iam 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.’

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.

At kirns an weddins we’se be there,

An O, sae nicely’s we will fare!

We’ll bowse about till Daddie Care

Sing Whistle owre the lave o’t.

Sae merrily the banes we’ll pyke,

An sun oursels about the dyke;

An at our leisure, when ye like,

We’ll whistle owre the lave o’t.

But bless me wi your heavn o charms,

An while I kittle hair on thairms,

Hunger, cauld, an a’ sick harms,

May whistle owre the lave o’t.

RECITAVO

Her charms had struck a sturdy caird,

As weel as poor gut-scraper;

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 Tweedle-Dee

Upon his hunkers bended,

An pray’d for grace wi ruefu face,

An sae 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
Tune: Clout the Cauldron

My bonie lass, I work in brass,