Down the burn Davie/Andro wi' his cutty gun

For other versions of this poem, see Blythe Was She.

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ANDRO WI' HIS CUTTY GUN.

Blyth, blythe and merry was she,
⁠Blythe was she but and ben;
O weel she lo'ed a Hawick gill,
⁠And leugh to see a tappit hen.
She took me in, and set me down,
⁠And heclit to keep me lawin free;
But cunning carlin that she was,
⁠She gar'd me birl my bawbee.
⁠⁠⁠Blyth, blyth, &c.

We lo'ed the liquor weel enough,
⁠But waes my heart my cash was done,
Before that I had quench'd my drouth,
⁠And laith I was to pawn my shoon.
When we had three times toom'd our stoup,
⁠And the neist chappin new begun,
In started, to heeze up our hope,
⁠Young Andro wi' his cutty gun.
⁠⁠⁠Blyth, blyth, &c.

The carlin brought her kebbuck ben,
⁠With girdle cakes weel toasted brown
Weel does the canny kimmer ken
⁠They gar the scuds, gae glibber down.
We ca'd the bicker aft about,
⁠Till dawning we ne'er jeed our bum,
And ay the clearest drinker out,
⁠Was Andro wi' his cutty gun.
⁠⁠⁠Blyth, blyth,&c.

He did like ony mavis sing,
⁠And as I in his oxter sat,
He ca'd me ay his bonny thing,
⁠And mony a sappy kiss I gat.
I hae been east, I hae been west,
⁠I hae been far ayout the sun;
But the blythest lad that e'er I saw,
⁠Was Andro wi' his cutty gun.
⁠⁠⁠Blyth, blyth, &c.