Tibby Fowler (1)/The fumbler's rant

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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,
we're masters o' the gear our sell;
Let either weel or wae betide,
here's a health-to a' the wives that's yell.

Our neighbour's auld son and the lass,
into the barn amang the strae
He grips her in the dark beguess,
and after that comes meikle wae:

Repentance ay comes afterbin',
it cost the Ca l bai corn and hay;
We're quat o' that wi' little din,
sic crosses hau t ne'er you nor I.

Now merry merry may we be
when we think on our neighbour Robie,
The way the Carl oes, we see
wi' his auld son and's daughter Maggy:

Boots he maun ha'e pistols, why not;
the hissy maun ha'e corkit hoon:
We are not sae; gar fill the pot,
we'll drink till a' the hours at e'en.

Here's a health to John Mackay, we'll drink,
to Hughie, Andrew, Rab and Tam;
We'll sit and drink, we'd nos and wink,
it is o'er soon for us to gang.

Foul fa' the cock, he's spilt the play,
and I to trow he’s but a fool.
We'll sit a while 'tis laig to day,
for a' the cocks do rave at Yool.

Since we ha'e met, we'll merry be,
the foremost hame shall bear the mell;
I'll set me down lest I be fee,
for fear that I should bear't myself.

And I, quoth Rob. and down sat he,
the gear shall never me cut-ride,
But we'll tak a sowp of the barley-bree,
and drink unto our yell fire-side.