Wi' fire tey spin, wi' fire tey weave,
Wi' fire do ilka turn, man,
Na, some o' tem will eat ta fire,
And no him's pelly purn, man.
Wi' fire tey mak' ta coach pe rin,
Upon ta railman's raw, man,
Nainsel will saw him teuk ta road,
An' teil a horse to traw, man;
Anither coach to Paisley rin,
Tey'll call him Lauchie's motion,
But oich! she was plawn a' to bits,
By rascal rogue M'Splosion.
Wi' fire tey mak' ta vessels rin
Upon ta river Clyde, man,
She saw't hersel, as sure's a gun
As she stood on ta side, man:
But gin you'll no pelieve her word,
Gang to ta Proomielaw, man,
You'll saw ta ship wi' twa mill-wheels,
Pe grund ta water sma', man.
Oich! sic a town as Glasgow town,
She never see pefore, man,
Ta houses tere pe mile and mair,
Wi' names 'poon ilka toor, man.
An' in teir muckle windows tere,
She'll saw't, sure's teath, for sale, man,
Praw shentleman's pe want ta head,
An' leddies want ta tail, man.
She wonders what ta peoples do,
Wi' a' ta praw things tere, man,
Gi'e her ta prose, ta kilt, an' hose,
For tem she wadna care, man.
And aye gi'e her ta pickle sneesh,
And wee drap parley pree, man,
For a' ta praws in Glasgow town,
She no gi'e a paw-prown-pee, man.
Ta Offish.
[Alex. Fisher.—Air, "Johnny Cape."]
Her nainsel' come frae ta hielan' hill,
To ponny town o' Glascow till,
But o' Glasgow she's koten her pelly fill,
She'll no forget tis twa tree mornin'.
She'll met Shony Grant her cosin's son,
An' Tuncan, an' Toukal, an' Tonal Cunn,
An' twa three more—an' she had sic fun,
But she'll turn't oot a saut saut mornin'.
Sae Shony Grant, a shill she'll ha'e
O' ta fera cootest usquapae,
An' she'll pochtet a shill, aye an' twa three mae,
An' she'll trank till ta fera neist mornin'.
She'll sat, an' she'll trank, an' she'll roar, an' she'll sang,
An' aye for ta shill ta pell she'll rang,
An' she'll maet sic a tin fat a man she'll prang,
An' she'll say't—"Co home 'tis mornin'."
Ta man she'll had on ta great pig coat,
An' in her han' a rung she'll cot,
An' a purnin' cruzie, an' she'll say't you sot
She'll maun go to ta Offish tis mornin'.
She'll say't to ta man—"De an Diaoul shin duitse?"
An' ta man she'll say't—"Pe quiet as ta mouse,
Or nelse o'er her nottle she'll come fu' crouse,
An' she'll put ta Offish in you in ta mornin."
Ta man she'll dunt on ta stane her stick,
An' t'an she'll pe cheuk her rick-tick-tick,
An' t'an she'll pe catchet her by ta neck,
An' trawn her to ta Offish in ta mornin'.
Ta mornin' come she'll be procht before
Ta gentleman's praw, an' her pones all sore,
An' ta shentleman's say't, "You tog, what for
You'll maet sic a tin in tis mornin'."
She'll teukit aff her ponnet and she'll maet her a poo,
An' she'll say't, "Please her Grace she cot her sel' foo,
But shust let her co and she'll never to
Ta like no more in ta mornin'.
But fan she'll ha'et to ta shentleman's praw
Ta Sheordie firae out o' her sporan traw,
An' she'll roart out loot—"De an diaoul a ha'e gra?
Oh hone O ri 'tis mornin'!"
O t'an she'll pe sait ta shentlemans, "she'll no unterstoot
What fere she'll pe here like ta lallan prute,
But she'll maet her cause either pad or coot,
For she'll teuk you to ta law this mornin'."
