Maggie, quo' he, and by my bags,
I'm fidgin' fain to see thee;
Sit down by nie, my bonnie bird,
In troth I winna steer thee:
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, ha'e ye your bags?
Or is your drone in order?
If ye be Eob, I've heard of 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.
Then to his bags he flew wi' speed,
About the drone he twisted;
Meg up and wallop'd o'er the green,
For brawly could she frisk it.
Weel done! quo he— play up! quo she;
Weel bobb'd! quo' Rob the Ranter;
'Tis worth my while to play indeed,
When I ha'e sic a dancer.
Weel ha'e you play'd your part, quo' Meg,
Your cheeks are like the crimson;
There's nane in Scotland plays sae weel,
Since we lost Habbie Simpson.
I've lived in Fife, baith maid and wife,
These ten years and a quarter;
Gin' ye should come to Anster fair,
Speir ye for Maggie Lauder.