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444. Song—A Fiddler in the North

 AMANG the trees, where humming bees,
 At buds and flowers were hinging, O,
Auld Caledon drew out her drone,
 And to her pipe was singing, O:
’Twas Pibroch, Sang, Strathspeys, and Reels,
 She dirl’d them aff fu’ clearly, O:
When there cam’ a yell o’ foreign squeels,
 That dang her tapsalteerie, O.
Their capon craws an’ queer “ha, ha’s,” They made our lugs grow eerie, O; The hungry bike did scrape and fyke, Till we were wae and weary, O: But a royal ghaist, wha ance was cas’d, A prisoner, aughteen year awa’, He fir’d a Fiddler in the North, That dang them tapsalteerie, O.

Poem by Robert Burns
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