Glen Collection of printed music > Printed text > Harp of Renfrewshire

156
A man that's been bred to the plough,
Might be deav'd wi' its clamorous clapper ;
Yet there's few but would suffer the sough,
After kenning what's said by the happer.
I whiles thought it scoff'd me to scorn.
Saying, shame, is your conscience no checkit
But when I grew dry for a horn,
It chang'd aye to, tak it man, tak it.
Hey for the mill, d-c.
The smugglers whyles cam wi' their pocks,
'Cause they kent that I liked a bicker ;
Sae I bartered whyles wi' the gowks,
Gied them grain for a soup o' their liquor,
I had lang been accustom'd to drink.
And aye when I purpos'd to quat it.
That thing wi' its clappertie clink.
Said aye to me, tak it man, tak it.
Hey for the mill, &c.
But the warst thing I did in my life,
Nae doubt but ye'll think I was wrang o't,
Od, I tauld a bit body in Fyfe
A' my tale, and he made a bit sang o't.
I have aye had a voice a' my days.
But for singing I ne'er got the knack o't,
Yet I tried whyles, just thinking to jDlease
The greedy wi' tak it man, tak it.
Hey for the mill, dv.