A tinkler is my station:

I’ve travell’d round all Christian ground

In this my occupation;

I’ve taen the gold, an been enrolled

In many a noble squadron;

But vain they search’d when off I march’d

To go an clout the cauldron.

Despise that shrimp, that wither’d imp,

With a’ his noise an cap’rin;

An take a share wi those that bear

The budget and the apron!

An by that stowp! my faith an houpe!

And by that dear Kilbaigie!

If e’er ye want, or meet wi scant,

May I ne’er weet my craigie.

RECITAVO

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 o Homer’s craft,

Tho limpin 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 thirsted;

He hated nought but – to be sad,

An thus the Muse suggested

His sang that night.

Tune: For a’ that, an a’ 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 am a Bard of no regard,

Wi gentle folks an a’ that,

But Homer-like the glowrin byke,

Frae town to town I draw 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.

Great love I bear to a’ the fair,

Their humble slave an a’ that;

But lordly will, I hold it still

A mortal sin to thraw that.

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!

Their tricks an craft hae put me daft,

They’ve taen me in, an a’ that;

But clear your decks, an here’s the Sex!

I like the jads for a’ that.

RECITAVO

So sung the Bard, and Nansie’s wa’s

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 tuds,

To quench their lowin 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
Tune: Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses

CHORUS

A fig for those by law protected!