Allister M'Allister.
[It is singular that the authorship of this spirited song is unknown.—Air, "Jenny's Bawbee."]
O Allister M'Allister,
Your chanter sets us a' astir,
Then to your bags and blaw wi' birr,
We'll dance the Highland fling.
Now Allister has tuned his pipes,
And thrang as bumbees frae their bykes,
The lads and lasses loup the dykes,
And gather on the green.
O Allister M'Allister, &c:
The miller, Hab, was fidgin' fain
To dance the Highland fling his lane,
He lap as high as Elspa's wame,
The like was never seen;
As round about the ring he whuds,
And cracks his thumbs and shakes his duds,
The meal flew frae his tail in cluds,
And blinded a' their een.
O Allister M'Allister, &c.
Neist rauchle-handed smiddy Jock,
A' blacken'd o'er wi' coom and smoke,
Wi' shauchlin' blear-e'ed Bess did yoke,
That slaverin'-gabbit quean.
He shook his doublet in the wund,
His feet like hammers strack the grund,
The very moudiwarts were stunnd,
Nor ken'd what it could mean.
O Allister M'Allister, &c.
Now wanton Willie was nae blate,
For he got haud o' winsome Kate,
"Come here," quo' he, "I'll show the gate
To dance the Highland fling."
The Highland fling he danced wi' glee,
And lap as he were gaun to flee;
Kate beck'd and bobb'd sae bonnilie,
And tript it light and clean.
O Allister M'Allister, &c.
Now Allister has done his best.
And weary houghs are wantin' rest,
Besides they sair wi' drouth were strest,
Wi' dancin' sae I ween.
I trow the gauntrees gat a lift,
And round the bicker flew like drift,
And Allister that very night,
Could scarcely stand his lane.
O Allister M'Allister, &c.
The Glasgow Fair.
[This ditty, descriptive of "The Humours of Glasgow Fair," was popular as a street song some twenty-five years ago. Old James Livingstone, the celebrated comic singer, brought it into repute. We can learn nothing of the author beyond that his name was Breckinridge, and that he was by trade a compositor.—The fair of Glasgow is held annually, and has been so from time immemorial, on the second week of July that includes a Monday.]
O, the sun frae the eastward was peeping,
And braid through the winnocks did stare,
When Willie cried—Tam, are ye sleeping?
Mak' haste, man, and rise to the fair;
For the lads and the lasses are thranging,
And a' body's now in a steer;
Fye, haste ye, and let us be ganging,
Or, faith, we'll be langsome I fear.
Lilt te turan an uran, &c.
Then Tam he got up in a hurry,
And wow but he made himsel' snod,
And a pint of milk brose he did worry,
To mak' him mair teugh for the road:
On his head his blue bannet he slippet,
His whip o'er his shouther he flang,
And a clumsy oak cudgel he grippet,
On purpose the loons for to bang.
Lilt te turan an uran, &c.
Now Willock had trysted wi' Jenny,
For she was a braw canty quean,
Word gade that she had a gay penny,
For whilk Willie fondly did grean.
Now Tam he was blaming the liquor,
Yae night he had got himsel fou,
And trysted gleed Maggy MacVicar,
And faith he thocht shame for to rue.
Lilt te turan an uran, &c.
The carles, fu' cadgie, sat cocking
Upon their white nags and their brown,
Wi' snuffing, and laughing, and joking,
They soon cantered into the town;
'Twas there was the funning and sporting,
Eh! lord what a swarm o' braw folk,
Rowly-powly, wild beasts, wheel o' fortune,
Sweetystan's, Maister Punch, and black Jock.
Lilt te turan an uran, &c.
