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Set her upo’ Tintock-tap,
The wind will blaw a man till her.
If a last be ne’er sae fine.
Gin she want the penny siller,
She may scan' till ninety-nine
Ere there come a man till her.
THE FUMBLER’S RANT.
COME Carls a' of Fumb'er's Ha',
and I will tell you o' our fate,
Since we ha’e married wives chat's braw,
and canna please them when 'tis late.
A pint we'll tak our hearts to chear;
what fauts we ha'e, our wives can tell
Gar bring us in baith ale and beer,
the auldest bairn we hae's ourtell.
Christ'ning o' weans we are rid off,
the parish Priest 'tis he can tell,
We aw him nought but a gray groat,
the off'ring for the house we dwell.
Our bairn's toeher is a' paid,
