Sandy Grey By C. Dibdin

 

Sandy Grey

Sandy Grey was a bit of a ranter,

O! he was the Highland gay,

When Mc Gregor he tuned up his chanter,

For footing a strathspey away,

Himself, too, could pipe like a throstel,

But then, if gude ale’ spide the chiel,

He’d so often be wetting his whistle,

When he piped he’d be dancing a reel,

Whith his toodle, roodle &co.

Making poetry, too, was his pleasure,

But wi’ Hellcon ne’er fashed his lug;

Like a poet, was found o’ gude measure,

Provided ‘twas ale in a mug:

He’d empty a flask down his throttle,

And then, like a poetic ass,

If you ask him the rhyme to a bottle,

Ten to one but he’d answer you- “glass.”

Toodle, roodle, &co.

Quickly he got dole for his drink

(Sorrow your sots a’sup, be assured)

He, an night, when the moon was na blinkin’,

Fell in a dyke and was smoored:

His mind ge’d to mugging been giving,

An’ could na fran dancing reel stop,

So as by the malt he stuck living,

His fate was to die by the hop,

Toodle, roodle,&co.

By C. Dibdin