The Complete Works. Robert Burns

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      He ended; and kebars sheuk

      Aboon the chorus roar;

      While frighted rattons backward leuk,

      And seek the benmost bore;

      A fairy fiddler frae the neuk,

      He skirl’d out—encore!

      But up arose the martial Chuck,

      And laid the loud uproar.

      Tune—“Soldier laddie.”

      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 dal, &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 I was with my sodger laddie.

      Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

      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 risk’d the body,

      ’Twas then I prov’d false to my sodger laddie.

      Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

      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.

      Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

      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 is rejoic’d at my sodger laddie.

      Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

      And now I have liv’d—I know not how long,

      And still I can join in a cup or 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 themselves they were sae busy:

      At length wi’ drink and courting dizzy

      He stoitered up an’ made a face;

      Then turn’d, an’ laid a smack on Grizzie,

      Syne tun’d his pipes wi’ grave grimace.

      Tune—“Auld Sir Symon.”

      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,

      And 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 o’ 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 abused in the kirk,

      Fer touzling 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

      Maks 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’,

      Gude L—d! he’s far dafter than I.

      Recitativo.

      Then neist outspak a raucle carlin,

      Wha kent fu’ weel to cleek the sterling,

      For monie a pursie she had hooked,

      And had in mony a well СКАЧАТЬ