The Book of Scottish Song/Allister M'Allister

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.

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