K. James Ist. and the tinker/Braw Johnny Bute

Braw JOHNNY BUTE.
Tune.—Flowers of Edinburgh.

BRaw Johnny Bute was a bonny meikle man,
frae Scotland he came with his broad sword in hand,
He came at the head of a braw bonny clan,
⁠wha the meickle d—l could his music withstand.
He looked so neat, and he killed so sweet,
⁠that a dame of renown soon gave ear to his suit,
Then his pipe he lugg'd out, and you need not to doubt
⁠but in concert he play'd with her German Flute.

Quoth he bonny lassie, your flute gangs well,
⁠and keeps good time with my bagpipe so clear,
Sic music as this will surely never fail,
⁠but in time to encore with an English ear.
What music so sweet or harmony so neat,
⁠as the bagpipes, when join'd with the German flute,
Then turning up his eyes, the blythesome dame replies
⁠when the bagpipes plays with braw Johnny Bute.

Play on bonny lad, for I've got great store of gold,
⁠your bags shall be fill'd, while your pipes you do play
But you ne'er shall return to a climit so cold,
⁠while your kisses are so sweet, & warmer than May.
Quoth he, ne'er mourn, for I never shall return,
⁠while here I can taste of the golden fruit,
Then his pipes fast he stay'd, and another lilt he play'd
⁠in concert so sweet with her German flute.

Now, ye English fools, you no more dare pretend,
⁠a music to vie with my bonny Highlandmen,
No more shall the lasses of England commend,
⁠the brave merry jigg to compare with my John;
For a merry strain, which enlivens every vein,
⁠wha the d---l with a Scots dare dispute,
But his bagpipes alone has too much of the drone,
⁠and, of need must be join'd with the German flute,

Come on, bonny lads, with courage advance,
⁠your poor empty scrips and your wallets disown,
Johnny Bute bears the bell, & he lifts up the dance,
⁠at the grand masquerade at the Thistle and Crown.
Where there's sweet meats & wine to invite you to dine
⁠your hunger assuage and your spirits recruit,
Whilst most soft to the ear hark the bagpipes so clear
⁠in concert resound with the German flute.

A brave English fiddle occurs to my strain,
⁠a better never was play'd on before,
The French horn, at a distance will join it amain,
⁠and the Spanish guitar has play'd it before.
But woe to the man who’d be join'd in the band,
⁠the fiddle would be broke & the fiddle-stick to boot,
For an Englishman born wou'd despise a French horn,
⁠tho' his ear wou'd be tickl'd with the German flute.

FINIS.