The poetical works of Susanna Blamire "The Muse of Cumberland." Now for the first time collected by Henry Lonsdale; With a preface, memoir, and notes by Patrick Maxwell |
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I'M TIBBY FOWLER O' THE GLEN. |
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 | The poetical works of Susanna Blamire "The Muse of Cumberland." |  |
I'M TIBBY FOWLER O' THE GLEN.
I'm Tibby Fowler o' the glen,
And nae great sight to see, sirs;
But 'cause I'm rich, these plaguy men
Will never let me be, sirs.
And nae great sight to see, sirs;
But 'cause I'm rich, these plaguy men
Will never let me be, sirs.
There's bonny Maggy o' the brae
As gude as lass can be, sirs;
But 'cause I'm rich these plaguy men
Hae a' run wud for me, sirs.
As gude as lass can be, sirs;
But 'cause I'm rich these plaguy men
Hae a' run wud for me, sirs.
There's Nabob Jock comes strutting ben,
He thinks the day's his ain, sirs;
But were he a' hung round wi' goud,
He'd find himsel mista'en, sirs.
He thinks the day's his ain, sirs;
But were he a' hung round wi' goud,
He'd find himsel mista'en, sirs.
There's Wat aye tries to glowr and sigh
That I may guess the cause, sirs;
But Jenny-like I hate to spell
Dumb Roger's hums and ha's, sirs.
That I may guess the cause, sirs;
But Jenny-like I hate to spell
Dumb Roger's hums and ha's, sirs.
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There's grinning Pate laughs a' day through,
The blithest lad ye'll see, sirs;
But troth he laughs sae out o' place,
He'd laugh gin I did die, sirs.
The blithest lad ye'll see, sirs;
But troth he laughs sae out o' place,
He'd laugh gin I did die, sirs.
There's Sandy, he's sae fou o' lear,
To talk wi' him is vain, sirs;
For gin we a' should say 'twas fair,
He'd prove that it did rain, sirs.
To talk wi' him is vain, sirs;
For gin we a' should say 'twas fair,
He'd prove that it did rain, sirs.
Then Jamie frets for good and ill,
'Bout sma' things makes a phrase, sirs;
And fears and frets, and things o' nought
Ding o'er his joyfu' days, sirs.
'Bout sma' things makes a phrase, sirs;
And fears and frets, and things o' nought
Ding o'er his joyfu' days, sirs.
The priests and lawyers ding me dead,
But gude kens wha's the best, sirs;
And then comes in the soldier brave,
And drums out a' the rest, sirs.
But gude kens wha's the best, sirs;
And then comes in the soldier brave,
And drums out a' the rest, sirs.
The country squire and city beau,
I've had them on their knee, sirs;
But weel I ken to goud they bow,
And no to downright me, sirs.
I've had them on their knee, sirs;
But weel I ken to goud they bow,
And no to downright me, sirs.
Should like o' them come ilka day,
They may wear out the knee, sirs;
And grow to the ground as fast as a stane,
But they shall ne'er get me, sirs.
They may wear out the knee, sirs;
And grow to the ground as fast as a stane,
But they shall ne'er get me, sirs.
| The poetical works of Susanna Blamire "The Muse of Cumberland." | |