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

358
He blew sae sweet, he blew sae shrill,
He blew sae loud and lang, man,
Baith hill and dale can tell the tale,
They ne'er gat sic a sang, man,
Fame heard the soun' a' Scotland roun'
My sooth he didna saunter,
Like fire and flame flew fast the name,
O' Rhymin' Rab the Ranter.
From John o'Groats to cross the Tweed,
And round the English border,
Was heard the rant o' Rabble's reed,
Sae weel 'twas kept in order.
To shepherd knowes where shamrock grows,
Wi' sic a' stound he sent her,
Auld Erin's drone her hood put on,
To shun the Scottish chanter.
Our lasses linket to the lilt.
The lads they lap and caper'd,
The carlins coost their crummies tilt,
Sae vauntingly they vapour'd.
Auld gutchers grey streek't up their clay.
To club the merry canter ;
Wliilst wood and glen prolong'd the strain,
O' Rhymin' Rab the Ranter.
But Scotia weel may wail her skaith.
And break her drones an a', man,
For death has marr'd her piper's breath,
Nae langer can he blaw, man.
She e'en may sit her down and sigh,
And wi' a greet content her,
She'll ne'er again on hill or plain.
Meet Rhymin' Rab the Ranter.