4
The fiddlers play’d, the younkers flang,
wi’ muckle fun an’ glee, man,
An’ ilka lad cried to his lass,
“Come here an’ dance wi’ me,” man.
Ilk bonny lass, fresh as the morn,
an’ red as ony rose, man,
Gade through amang the chapmen’s stands,
their beauty to disclose, man.
The whisky made the young men bauld,
an’ heez’d them up wi’ houp, man;
But or the day was done some sand
the pith o’ the gill stoop, man.
John Cleek-the-purse gade thro’ the fair,
ay looking for a prize, man.
An’ e’ed them weel that handled cash,
the same for to capsize, man.
Wi’ horse an’ nowt, sic yellochin
maist like to rend the air, man,
An’ mony tricks were tried an' done
that day at Cawder fair, man.
Some lost their bonnets, some their cash,
some lost their senses a’ man.
An’ some fell o’er an’ doz’d asleep,
by hedge, dykeside, or wa’, man;
An’ mony a ane for want o’ thought,
brought on baith dool an’ care, man.
An’ got a backcast a’ their days,
