manuscript book - Love and Liberty – A Cantata
Recitativo
When lyart leaves bestrow the yird,
Or wavering like the *Bauckie-bird,
Bedim cauld Boreas' blast;
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte,
And infant Frosts begin to bite,
In hoary cranreuch drest;
Ae night at e'en a merry core
O' randie, gangrel bodies,
In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore',
To drink their orra dudies:
Wi' quaffing, and laughing,
They ranted an' they sang;
Wi' jumping, an' thumping,
The vera girdle rang.
First, niest the fire, in auld red rags,
Ane sat; weel brac'd wi' mealy bags,
And knapsack a' in order;
His doxy lay within his arm,
Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm,
She blinkit on her Sodger:
__________________________
* The old Scotch name for the Bat. ----
The tither skelpan kiss,
While she held up her greedy gab,
Just like an aumous dish:
Ilk smack still, did crack still,
Just like a cadger's whip;
Then staggering, an' swaggering,
He roar'd this ditty up ----
Air. ---- Tune, Soldier's joy ----
I am a Son of Mars who have been in many wars,
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come;
This here was for a Wench, and that other in a trench,
When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum.
Lal de daudle &c.
My Prenticeship I past where my Leader breath'd his last,
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram;
And I served out my Trade when the gallant game was play'd,
And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum.
I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries,
And there I left for witness, an arm and a limb;
Yet let my Country need me, with Elliot to head me,
I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum.
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum,
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my Callet,
As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum.
What tho; with hoary locks, I must stand the winter's shocks
What tho', with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks,
Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home,
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell,
I could meet a troop of Hell at the sound of a drum.
Recitativo --------
He ended; and the kebars sheuk,
Aboon the chorus roar;
While frighted rattons backward leuk,
An' seek the benmost bore:
A fairy Fiddler frae the neuk,
He skirl'd out, encore!
But up arose the martial chuck,
An' laid the loud uproar ----
Air, Tune, Sodger Laddie --------
I once was a Maid tho' I cannot tell when,
And still my delight is in proper, young men:
Some one of a troop of Dragoons was my dadie,
No wonder I'm fond of a Sodger laddie.
Sing lal de dal &c.
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade;
His leg was so tight and his cheek was so ruddy,
Transported I was with my Sodger laddie.
But the godly, old Chaplain left him in the lurch,
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church;
He ventur'd the Soul, and I risked the Body,
'Twas then I proved false to my Sodger laddie.
Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified Sot,
The Regiment at large for a husband I got;
From the gilded Spontoon to the Fife I was ready,
I asked no more but a Sodger laddie.
But the Peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair,
Till I met old boy in a Cunningham fair;
His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy,
My heart it rejoic'd at a Sodger laddie.
And now I have lived -- I know not how long,
And still I can join in a cup and a song:
But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady,
Here's to thee, my Hero, my Sodger laddie.
The Scene of the Merry Andrew Soldier
Poor Merry-andrew, on a the neuk,
Sat guzzling wi' a Tinkler-hizzie;
They mind't na wha the chorus teuk,
Between themsels they were sae busy:
At length wi' drink an' courting dizzy,
He stoiter'd up an' made a face;
Then turn'd an' [page torn]
Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace
Air. 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 profes'ion.
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 ty'd up like a stirk,
For civilly swearing and quaffing;
I, ance, was abus'd i' the kirk,
For towsing a lass i' my daffin.
Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport,
Let nae body name wi' a jeer
A Tumbler ca'd the Premier.
Observ'd ye yon reverend lad
Mak faces to tickle the Mob;
He rails at our mountebank squad,
Its rivalship just i' the job.
[page torn] I'll tell,
For faith I'm confoundedly dry:
The chiel that's a fool for himsel,
Guid L--d, he's far dafter than I.
______________
Then niest outspak a raucle Carlin,
Wha ken't fu' weel to cleek the Sterlin';
For mony a pursie she had hooked,
An' had in mony a well been douked:
Her Love had been a Highland laddie,
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie!
Wi' sighs an' sobs she thus began
To wail her braw John Highlandman --------
Air. Tune, O, an' ye were dead Gudeman. --------
A highland lad my Love was born,
The lalland laws he held in scorn;
But he still was faithfu' to his clan,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
Chorus ----
Sing hey my braw John Highlandman!
Sing ho my braw John Highlandman!
There's not a lad in a' the lan'
Was match for my John Highlandman.
With his philibeg, an' tartan plaid,
An' guid Claymore down by his side,
The ladies' hearts he did trepan,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
Sing hey &c.
An' liv'd like lords an' ladies gay;
For a lalland face he feared none,
My gallant, braw John Highlandman.
Sing hey &c.
They banish'd him beyond the sea,
But ere the bud was on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.
Sing hey &c.
But, Och! they catch'd him at the last,
And bound him in a dungeon fast;
My curse upon them every one,
They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman.
Sing hey &c.
And now a widow I must mourn
The pleasures that will ne'er return;
No comfort but a hearty can,
When I think on John Highlandman.
Sing hey &c.
Recitativo ----
A pigmy Scraper wi' his Fiddle,
Wha us'd at trystes an' fairs to driddle,
Her strappan limb an' gausy middle, (He reach'd nae higher)
An' blawn't on fire.
Wi' hand on hainch, and upward e'e,
He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three,
Then in an arioso key,
The wee Apollo
Set off wi' allegretto glee
His giga solo ----
Air. -- Tune, Whistle owre the lave o't.
Let me ryke up to dight that tear,
An' go wi' me an' be my dear;
An' then your every care an' fear
May whistle owre the lave o't.
Chorus ----
I am a Fiddler to my trade,
An' a' the tunes that e'er I play'd,
The sweetest still to wife or maid,
Was whistle owre the lave o't.
At Kirns an' weddins we'se be there,
An' O sae nicely's we will fare!
We'll bowse about till Dadie Care
Sing whistle owre the lave o't.
I am &c.
Sae merrily's the banes we'll pyke,
An' sun oursells about the dyke
We'll whistle owre the lave o't.
I am &c.
But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms,
An' while I kittle hair on thairms
Hunger, Cauld, an' a' sic harms
May whistle owre the lave o't . I am &c.
Recitativo ----
Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird
As weel as poor gutscraper;
He taks the Fiddler by the beard,
An' draws a roosty rapier ----
He swoor by a' was swearing worth
To speet him like a Pliver,
Unless he would from this that time forth
Relinquish her for ever:
Wi' ghastly e'e poor Tweedledee
Upon his hunkers bended,
An' pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face,
An' so the quarrel ended;
But tho' his little heart did grieve,
When round the Tinkler prest her,
He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve
When thus the Caird address'd her ----
My bonie lass I work in brass,
A Tinkler is my station;
I've travell'd round all Christian ground
In this my occupation;
I've ta'en the gold, an been enroll'd
In many a noble squadron;
But vain they search'd when off I march'd
To go an' clout the Cauldron.
I've ta'en the gold &c.
Despise that Shrimp, that withered Imp,
With a' his noise an' cap'rin;
An' take a share with those that bear
The budget and the apron!
And by that Stowp! my faith an' houpe,
And by that dear *Keilbaigie!
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant,
May I ne'er weet my craigie!
_____________________
* A peculiar sort of Whiskie so called: a great
favorite with Poosie Nansie's Clubs. ----
The Caird prevail'd -- th'unblushing fair
In his embraces sunk;
Partly wi' Love o'ercome sae sair,
An' partly she was drunk:
Sir Violino with an air,
That show'd a man o' spunk,
Wish'd unison between the pair,
An' made the bottle clunk
To their health that night.
But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft,
That play'd a Dame a shavie ----
The Fiddler rak'd her, fore and aft,
Behint the Chicken cavie;
Her lord, a Wight of Homer's craft,
Tho' limpin wi' the Spavie, He hirpl'd up, an' lap like daft,
An' shor'd them Dainty Davie
O' boot that night.
He was a care-defying blade
As ever Bacchus listed!
Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid,
His heart,she ever miss'd it:
____________________
Homer is allowed to be the eldest Ballad singer on
record.
Nor want but -- when he thirsted;
He hated nought but -- to be sad,
An' thus the muse suggested
His sang that night.
Air. -- Tune , for a' that an' a' that ----
I am a Bard of no regard,
Wi' gentle folks an' a' that;
But Homer-like, the glowran byke,
Frae town to town I draw that.
Chorus ----
For a' that an' a' that,
An' twice as muckle's a' that,
I've lost but ane, I've twa behin',
I've wife eneugh for a' that.
I never drank the Muses' Stank,
Castalia's burn, an' a' that,
But there it streams, an' richly reams,
My Helicon I ca' that.
For a' that &c.
Great love I bear to all the Fair,
Their humble slave an' a' that;
But lordly Will, I hold it still
A mortal sin to thraw that.
For a' that &c.
Wi' mutual love an' a' that;
But for how lang the flie may stang,
Let Inclination law that.
For a' that &c.
Their tricks an' craft hae put me daft,
They've ta'en me in, an' a' that,
But clear your decks, an' here's the Sex!
I like the jads for a' that.
For a' that an' a' that
An' twice as muckle's a' that,
My dearest bluid, to do them guid,
They're welcome till't for a' that.
Recitativo ----
So sung the Bard -- and Nansie's waws
Shook with a thunder of applause
Re-echo'd from each mouth!
They toom'd their pocks, they pawn'd their duds;
They scarcely left to coor their fuds,
To quench their lowan drouth:
Then owre again the jovial thrang
The Poet did request
To lowse his pack an' wale a sang,
A ballad o' the best:
Between his twa Deborahs,
Looks round him an' found them
Impatient for the Chorus ----
Air. ----Tune, Jolly Mortals fill your glasses ----
See the smoking bowl before us,
Mark our jovial ,ragged ring!
Round and round take up the Chorus,
And in raptures let us sing --
Chorus ----
A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty's a glorious feast!
Courts for Cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the Priest.
What is title, what is treasure,
What is reputation's care?
If we lead a life of pleasure,
'Tis no matter how or where.
A fig &c.
With the ready trick and fable
Round we wander all the day;
And at night, in barn or stable,
Hug our doxies on the hay.
A fig for &c.
Thro' the country lighter rove?
Does the sober bed of Marriage
Witness brighter scenes of love?
A fig for &c.
Life is all a variorum,
We regard not how it goes;
Let them cant about decorum,
Who have character to lose.
A fig for &c.
Here's to budgets, bags and wallets!
Here's to all our the wandering train!
Here's our ragged Brats and Callets!
One and all cry out, Amen!
A fig for those by law protected,
Liberty's a glorious feast!
Courts for Cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the Priest.
Finis. ----
Key details
- Archive number
- NTS/02/25/BRN/02/193
- Alt. number
- 3.6233
- Date
- 1788
- On display
- Yes
- Creator
- Burns, Robert (Author)
- Archive number
- NTS/02/25/BRN/02/193
- Alt. number
- 3.6233
- Date
- 1788
- On display
- Yes
- Creator
- Burns, Robert (Author)
Description
Love and Liberty – A Cantata. Manuscript book, Begins: "When lyart leaves bestrow the yird". The manuscript, from which the first edition of the cantata was published as a chapbook by Stewart Meikle, Glasgow, in 1779.
Another copy of this is in the collection . Also bound within book is a page of Stair Manuscript containing "Northern Lass" and "Stanzas on the Same Occassion".
This is the manuscript Burns wrote to give to Stewart & Meikle, the publishers of its first twopenny edition. The Cantata is a series of tales influenced by John Gay's Beggars Opera and other works. Burns relates the life stories of eight local vagabonds assembled in a Mauchline Inn in a loquacious and jolly mood.
In page 1 Burns sets the scene, outside it is cold but inside Poosie Nancie's Inn there is a happy if ragged group of disorderly vagabonds singing loud enough to make the roof shake. First to be introduced is the soldier, with his girl, his whisky and a warm blanket all to comfort him.
Page 2 we see the soldier and his girl noisily kissing before he renders his tale. His fighting with the French at the heights of Abraham (Quebec) and Santiago de Cuba. Then he fought on the sea with Admiral Sir Roger Curtis where he lost an arm & a leg, but if his country needed him he would do his bit.
Page 3 has the soldier saying he is as happy as ever, even though he is in rags and has to beg for a living and sleep out of doors, but he would still answer the sound of the drum. His song was loud enough to frighten the rats in the rafters. An encore was called for but instead his girl got up and began her tale.
Page 4 has our camp follower telling of her first lover, a gallant, good-looking young man. Her second was a man of the church but her next conquest was the 'Regiment'. As peace came she too was reduced to begging but now she was happy again with a soldier whom she could toast, but needed two hands to hold her glass steady.
In Page 5 we are introduced to poor merry Andrew who comes away from courting in the corner of the fireplace to give us his tale. He admits to being a 'fool' and 'daft'. He was once censored by the Church for importuning a young lady.
Page 6 is a short page in which the 'fool' finishes his tale by calling the prime Minister a fool and says ministers in the pulpit are rivals to 'his trade'. Being dry he finishes.
In Page 7 we are introduced to a sturdy woman pickpocket. She tells us of her lover, a Highland lad with a sword and a kilt. He ensnared the ladies hearts but he was a lawless lad.
In Page 8 we hear of the travels of the woman and her braw John Highlandman across the lowlands living the good life, but earning it cost him his life by hanging. Her only comfort now is a full glass. We are now introduced to a small man with a fiddle.
Page 9 has the little fiddler breaking into song to the large beldam of the last tale. His favourite tune is "Whistle over the lave o't". He promises to wipe away her tears and promises a grand time together when he plays his fiddle at his harvest-homes and weddings.
In Page 10 the little fiddler promises his female companion that he will look after her but her charms have taken the eye of a sturdy tinker lad who draws his rusty sword and threatens to run the fiddler through unless he gives up the woman. The fiddler acquiesced and the quarrel ended.
Page 10 in the tinkers tale, he tells of his trade and how he often took the bounty to be a soldier but was sure to be absent when his unit marched off. He tells the woman that she should give up on the fiddler. From now on he will look after her need or, he says, may he never have drink again.
In Page 12 we see the tinker gets the woman who sinks in his arms, overcome with emotion and drink. The little fiddler is a good looser and drinks their health. However he later fondles her behind the chicken coop. We are then introduced to a rheumatic Bard (Burns?) a daring drinking man who fell in love easily.
In Page 13 the bard seems just too like Burns himself. He wanted always to be glad, well watered and never to be sad. His muse encouraged him to sing of his poesy and his fame. His is a local inspiration and he does love the lassies.
In Page 14 we see the bard confess that however enraptured he may be he cannot tell how long that particular interest will last. However women deceive him, he loves them "for a' that". And so the bard sings his roof raising song.
Page 15 contains a rousing song. What is treasure or reputation so long as we are happy, if poor. We can tell a good story or use a trick so long as we can end up at night with our lover in the hay for a hug.
Page 16 is the final page in which our bard asks rhetorically if wealth or sober wedlock will ensure a finer love. We don't need to worry about decorum if we have nothing to lose. A toast to all of us vagabonds. "so be it".
When at Mossgeil in 1785 Burns and friend John Richmond visited an Inn in Mauchline where they experienced the inebriated setting and vagabond characters which inspired this work. It was his only attempt at a longer work capable of being staged.
Archive information
Themes
Hierarchy
-
Robert Burns, collection of poems and songs
(
a sub-fonds is a subdivision in the archival material)
- manuscript book - Love and Liberty – A Cantata
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