POINT V. THE JOLLY BEGGARS; OR, LOVE AND LIBERTY, A CANTATA. BY

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POINT V. THE JOLLY BEGGARS; OR, LOVE AND LIBERTY, A CANTATA. BY ROBERT BURNS. Drunk woman kissing a handicap man

RECITATIVO.

When lyart leaves bestrow the yird,
Or wavering like the Bauckie-bird[1],
Bedim cauld Boreas' blast;
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte,
And infant frosts begin to bite,
In hoary cranreuch drest;
Ae night at e'en a merry core
O' randie, gangrel bodies,
In Posie-Nansie's[2] held the splore[3],
To drink their orra duddies[4]:
Wi' quaffing, and laughing,
They ranted an' they sang;
Wi' jumping, an' thumping,
The vera girdle rang.
First, neist the fire, in auld red rags,
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags,
And knapsack a' in order;
His doxy lay within his arm,
Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm,
She blinket on her sodger:
An' ay he gies the tozie drab
The tither skelpan kiss,
While she held up her greedy gab
Just like an aumous[5] dish:
Ilk smack still, did crack still,
Just like a cadger's[6] whip;
Then staggering, an' swaggering,
He roar'd this ditty up—

AIR.

TuneSoldier's Joy.

I.

I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars,
And shew my cuts and scars wherever I come;
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench,
When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum.
Lal de daudle, &c.

II.

My prenticeship I past, where my leader breath'd his last,
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram;
I served out my trade, when the gallant game was play'd,
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum.

III.

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries,
And there I left for witness, an arm and a limb;
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me,
I'll clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum.

IV.

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[7],
As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum.

V.

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.

RECITATIVO.

He ended; and the kebars[8] sheuk
Aboon the chorus roar;
While frighted rattons backward leuk,
An' seek the benmost bore[9];
A Merry Andrew i' the neuk,
He skirl'd out, encore!
But up arose the martial chuck,
An' laid the loud uproar.

AIR.

TuneSodger Laddie.

I.

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 lal, &c.

II.

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.

III.

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.

IV.

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.

V.

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.

VI.

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.
Sing, Lal de dal, &c.

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 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.

AIR.

TuneAuld Sir Simon.

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.
Man on soapbox speaking to a crowd

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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