The Book of Scottish Song/A canty Sang

A canty Sang.

[Robert Gilfillan.—Tune, "The Laird o' Cockpen."]

A canty sang, O, a canty sang,
Will naebody gi'e us a canty sang?
There's naething keeps nights frae turning owre lang
Like a canty sang, like a canty sang.

If folk wad but sing when they're gaun to flyte,
Less envy ye'd see, less anger and spite;
What saftens doun strife, and mak's love mair strang,
Like a canty sang, like a canty sang?
Like a canty sang, &c.

If lads wad but sing when they gang to woo,
They'd come na aye hame wi' thoum i' their mou';
The chiel that wi' lasses wad be fu' thrang,
Suld learn to lilt to them a canty sang.
A canty sang, &c.

When fools become quarrelsome ower their ale,
I'se gi'e ye a cure whilk never will fail,—
When their tongues get short an' their arms get lang,
Aye drown the din wi' a canty sang!
A canty sang, &c.

I downa bide strife, though fond o' a spree,
Your sair wordy bodies are no for me:
A wee dribble punch, gif it just be strang,
Is a' my delight, an' a canty sang!

A canty sang, O, a canty sang,
Will naebody gi'e us a canty sang?
There's naething keeps nights frae turning ower lang
Like a canty sang, like a canty sang.

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