(8)
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.
