Bart'lemy fair/Andrew wi' his cutty gun

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

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ANDREW WI' HIS CUTTY GUN.

Blythe, blythe and merry was she,
Blythe was she butt an' ben;
Weel she lo'ed a Hawick gill.
And leugh to see a tappit hen.

She took me in, she set me down,
She hecht to keep me lawin-free;
But, wylie Carlin that she was!
She gart me birl my bawbee.
Blythe, blythe, &c.

I lo'ed the liquor weel eneugh.
But, waes my heart, my cash ran done,
Lang or I had quench'd my drouth,
And laith I was to pawn my shoon!
Blythe, blythe, &c.

When we had three times toom'd the stowp,
And the neist chappin new begun,
Wha started in to heeze our hope,
But Andrew wi' his cutty gun.
Blythe, blythe, &c.

The Carlin brought her kebbuck ben,
And girdle-cakes weel toasted brown;
Weel did the cannie kimmer ken
It gart the swats gae glibber down.
Blythe, blythe, &c.

We ca'd the bicker aft about,
Till dawning we ne'er jeed our bun;
And ay the cleanest drinker out
Was Andrew wi' his cutty gun.
Blythe, blythe, &c.

He did like any mavis sing,
While she below his oxter sat;
He ca'd her ay his bonnie thing,
And mony a sappy kiss she gat.
Blythe, blythe, &c,

I hae been east, I hae been west,
I hae been far ayont the sun,
But the cleverest lad that e'er I saw,
Was Andrew wi' his cutty gun.
Blythe, blythe, &c.