Tune—“Auld Sir Symon.”
Sir Wisdom’s a fool when he’s fou;
Sir Knave is a fool in a session;
He’s there but a ’prentice I trow,
But I am a fool by profession.
My grannie she bought me a beuk,
An’ I held awa to the school;
I fear I my talent misteuk,
But what will ye hae of a fool?
For drink I would venture my neck;
A hizzie’s the half of my craft;
But what could ye other expect
Of ane that’s avowedly daft?
I ance was tied up like a stirk,
For civilly swearing and quaffin;
I ance was abus’d i’ the kirk,
For towsing a lass i’ my daffin.
Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport,
Let naebody name wi’ a jeer;
There’s even, I’m tauld, i’ the Court
A tumbler ca’d the Premier.
Observ’d ye yon reverend lad
Mak faces to tickle the mob;
He rails at our mountebank squad,—
It’s rivalship just i’ the job.
And now my conclusion I’ll tell,
For faith I’m confoundedly dry;
The chiel that’s a fool for himsel’,
Guid Lord! he’s far dafter than I.