MAGGY LAUTHER.
Wha wau'dna be in love,
wi' bonny Maggy Lauther,
A piper met her gaun through Fife,
he spier'd what was't they ca'd her.
Light scornfully she answer'd him,
begone you hallan-staker
Jog on your gate you blather-skate,
My name is Maggy Lauther.
Maggy quo' he now by my bags.
I'm ⟨staging⟩ fain to see thee,
Sit down by me my bonny bird,
indeed I winna steer thee:
for I'm a piper to my trade,
my name is Rob the Rantar,
The lasses loup as they were daft,
When I blaw up my chanter
Piper quo' Meg hae ye your bags,
or is your drone in order
Gif ye be Rob we've heard of you
live ye upo' the border.
The kintry a' baith far and near,
has heard of Rab the Ranter,
I'll shake my foot wi' right good will,
gin ye will blaw your chanter.
Then to his bags he flew wi' speed,
aud round his drone he twisted,
Meg up and wallop'd o'er the green,
for brawly could she frisk it.
Well done, quo' he play up quo' she,
Well bob'd quo' Rab the Ranter,
'Tis worth my while to play, quo' he,
when I get sic a dancer.
Well hae ye play'd your part, quo' Meg
your cheeks are like the crimson,
There's nane in Scotland plays liks you,
Siuce we lost Habbie Simson:
I've liv'd in Fife baith maid and wife
These ten years and a quarter,
When ye come there to Amst'er fair,
spier ye for Maggy Lauther.
Then Rob he rous'd and took the road,
and round all Fife he ranted,
And play'd a spring thro' Siller-dykes,
as merry Meg he wanted:
And as he enter'd Amst'er town,
his drone it sounded louder,
His bags he blew till the chanter flew,
no pipes was ever prouder.
Then Meg came gigling to the door,
and saw her bairn's father,
O mind not ye, ye danc'd wi' me,
you boeny Maggy Lauther;
Which makes me rue that day sinsyne,
that e'er I heard your chanter,
But now I hope you'll marry me,
My bonny Rob the Ranter.
For when I danc'd, then you advanc'd,
and ye promis'd not to steer me,
Wae to the day I heard you play,
it makes the kintry jeer me.
But since that ye will comfort gi'e,
I'm glad ye've come to see me,
And from the scandal of the jigs,
in realty you will free me.
Fidlers' wives and gamesters' drink,
is free to all who chuse them,
But if you'll be a piper's wife,
I'll guard you in my bosom.
And while I live to blaw a blast
you'se never be a wanter,
Since your're so free to marry me,
you're bonny Rob the Ranter