THE PIPES.
Tune—"Maggie Lauder."
The blast o' war, on Brass o' Mar,
Arous'd rebellion's stour, man;
The bagpipes clear, the clans did cheer,
To fecht at Sherra-moor, man:
Then foreign field saw sword an' shield,
Baith Dons an' Munsies claw, man:
The pibroch gay, that cleared the way,
Was Up and waur them a', man.
But bowden bags, an' drones wi' flags
Gaed out as Peace cam' in, man;
An' saurless gypes preserv'd the pipes,
That only gya the win', man;
A light they scratch, and haud the match
Where they tobacco stuff in;
Then raise a smoke wad smore a brock,
While aff they scour puff-pullin'!
Here beggars blind, to raise the wind,
Their black-mou'd cutty blaw, man;
For what you chuck, they wus you luck,
But never miss a draw, man;
There royal Stars, wi' dear cigars,
In clouds consume their days, man;
When Dukes hae luck to kill a buck,
They sit astride an' blaze, man!
Thus gryte an' sma', in cot an' ha',
Inhale this foreign fume, man;
An' sons o' toil in smoking pile,
Baith bit an' brat consume, man;
Their wives gang bare, their bairns want lare,
An' reek aye maks a sour house;
When limb and lith hae tint their pith,
They shochel to the Poorhouse.
Then, Lasses gay, attend my lay,
That's lilted for your profit;
An' quickly quench this poison's stench
That's only fit for Tophet;
Renounce the race, that fumes your face,
Tho' some may ca' you saucy;-
Nane but a gype, for fousome pipe,
Would lose a thrifty lassie!