Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/295

Rh For he was kent baith far and wide,

For he could den and he could hide,

And cadge wha like the kintra thro',

Nane could cadge like him, I trow.

The wearie body, &c.

Lang did they curse his soupple legs,

When he ran aff wi' hens and eggs,

The wives would cry, the deil be in't,

If I hinna lost my tait o' lint;

And then they'd rue his freenly gills,

That gart them aft to sign his bills,

And mony a wearie wicht, I trow,

Paid dear enough for gettin' fou.

The wearie body, &c.

At last he thocht to save his neck,

He hied him aff to cauld Quebec,

And there set up the grocer trade,

And many a pauky trick he play'd;

But Yankie he was nae sic fool,

He dipp'd the cadger in the pool,

And for fear he would their country stain,

They kickit the body back again.

The wearie body, &c.

O! had you seen sic consternation,

Ilk face was mark'd wi' pale vexation;

And young and auld allke complain,

Is the wearie body back again?

The shuttle chocked in the shed,

The list'nin' tailor brak' his thread;

The wright, wi' spite, threw by his plane,

Is the body really back again?

The wearie body, &c.

The sturdy mason drapp'd his mell

The blacksmith's big fore-hammer fell;

The cannie nurse let fe' the wean—

Losh! woman, d'ye think he's back again!

The chattin' barber cut the face,

The auld guidman forgat the grace,

Na! the lasses wadna lie their lane,

Sin' e'er they heard o' him back again.

The wearie body, &c.

Weel may Scotland greet wi' spite,

And gi'e the Yankies a' the wite,

That wadna let the wicht remain,

But pest us wi' him back again;

For weel I wat they kent fu' weel,

A rogue like him was just a deil;

They micht had mair respect for men,

Than sent the body back again.

The wearie body, &c.

[—Air, "Lassie wi' the lint-white locks."]

a green purse and a wee pickle gowd,

A bonnie piece lan' an' a plantin' on't,

It fattens my flocks, an' my barns it has stow'd,

But the best thing o' a's yet a-wantin' on't.

There's a but and a ben, a stable, a byre,

A guid kale yard and a weel snecket yett,

Wi' plenty o' peats to throw o' the fire,

But the best thing o' a's a wantin' yet.

I thought o' a wife for ten years and mair,

But nane will answer that stops hereabout,

And I ha'e nae time to gang here and there;

A wanter I am, and I'll bide sae, I doubt.