The Lay of the Reedswater Minstrel

by Robert Roxby

When a’ the bets were lost and won,
An’ when the rustic race was o’er,
The couples donn’d their dancing shoon,
And Allen’s drones began to roar.

A stalwart tinkler wight was he,
And wee’l could mend a pot or pan,
An’ deftly wull cou’d thraw a flee,
An’ neatly weave the willo wan.

An’ sweetly wild were Allen’s strains,
An’ mony a jig an’ reel he blew,
Wi’ merry lilts he charm’d the swains,
Wi’ barbed spear the otter slew.

Ne’er mair he’ll scan wi’ anxious eye,
The sandy shores of winding Reed,
Nae mair he’ll tempt the finny fry,
The King o’ Tinklers, Allen’s dead.

Nae mair at Mell or Merry Night,
The cheering bagpipes Wull shall blaw,
Nae mair the village throng delight,
Grim death has laid the Minstrel law.