with critical observations and biographical notices, by Robert Burns

95
For I'm a piper to my trade,
My name is Rob the Ranter
The lasses loup as they were daft,
When I blaw up my chanter.
Piper, quo' Meg, hae ye your bags ?
Or is your drone in order ?
If ye be Rob, I've heard o' you,
Live you upo' the border ?*
The lasses a', baith far and near,
Have heard o' Rob the Ranter
I'll shake my foot wi' right gude will,
Gif you'll blaw up your chanter.
have the art of mingling falsehood and truth with admirable
art, annoying with it the sage remarks of the sober-minded and
wise.
* Probably a temporary and convenient residence of the
minstrel. The emigration of Highland reapers to the lowlands
of Scotland has brought the old favourite pipes again into vogne.
On the da:y-close of harvest-toil the girls bind up their locks : the
men wash their sweaty faces, and throw aside their gray socks.
On the little green plat before the farm hall, the old bandsmen
come out and see their children dancing and making raerry.
The Piper seats himself on the knocking-stone, and strikes into
one of those wild northern airs which stirs even old age to the
frolics and pranks of youth.
In talking on this subject to an intelligent Scotsman, he told
the