Page:Selection of songs, &c..pdf/4

 He'll no be the first that’ll flinch frae a party—

Assembled in ale-house, hall, kitchen, or barn;

Wi’ the drouthy he'll drink, wi’ the merry be mirthfu’;

For a’body’s body is Josie Strathern.

He’ll fit you wi‘ shoes, frae the Lady’s silk slipper,

To the ploughman's stout brogues, nail d wi' steel an’ wi’ iron :

An’ he 'll either mak‘ new anes, drive tackets, or cobble,

For aye ready to ser’ you is Josie Strathern.

The Greeks, they may boast their Timotheus and Orpheus,

The English o’ Handel, an’ Arnold an’ Arne:

An’ Scotchmen may point to their Smiths, Gows, an’ Gilmours,

But Beith fo’k may brag o’ their Josie Strathern.

Music sooths the toil-worn, an' revives the dispondent,

An’ saftens the tyrant, relentless an’ stern—

It gi‘es action to mirth, an excites pure devotion.

An’ sic strains we enjoy, play d by Josie Strathern.

While the songs of the bard, an' the strains of the viol,

Charm the ear an’ the heart o man, maid, wife, an' bairn—

There will aye be musicians, some war' an’ some better,

But we'll ne'er hear ane equal to Josie Strathern.

Some sing the exploits o’ fam’d statesmen an’ heroes,

Wha' rule the rebellious, an’ combat the foe—

Some sing o’ their loves, ithers wail out their sorrows,

But I’ll gie you a sang about Donald Monro.

He was rear’d in the north, ’mang the hills, near Lochaber,

Whar clansmen hae march’d and loud bagpipes did blow,