Hiv ye iver seen a tinkler's
camp, upon a simmer's nicht,
On yhe nicht afore the market,
fan a' things gaun richt,
Fan a' the tramps an hawkers
they come fae hill an' dale,
Tae gaither in the gloamin' on
the Moss o' Burreldale.
Chorus :
Fan the ale wis only tuppence,
an' a tanner bocht a gill,
A besom or a tilly pan, or a
shelt we aye could sell,
An' we a' forgot oor troubles
ower a "forty" o' sma' ale,
Fan we gaithered in the gloamin'
on the Moss o' Burreldale.
Jock Stewart, he wid hae a fecht,
an' took his jeckit aff,
Bit Squeakin' Annie sattled him,
we a' got sic a laugh.
She ran ower amang the tilly-pans,
for a wee fite iron pail
An' skeppit him like a swarm o'
bees on the Moss o' Burreldale.
Noo little Jamie Docherty, a
horseman great wis he,
So he jumpit on a shaltie's
back, some tricks to lat us see.
Bit a callant shoved some
prickly whins aneath the shaltie's tail.
Heidfirst he shot in a mossy pot
on the Moss o' Burreldale.
By this time Stewart, got the
pail torn aff his achin' heid,
An' kickit up an awfu' soun'
eneuch tae wauk the deid
Bit Annie roared, "Come on
Macduff, tho' I should get the gaol!
Pit them up, ma mannie, ye're
nae fit for Annie, the Rose o' Burreldale."
Bit Annie wis nae langer heard
fan muckle Jock MacQueen,
He srartit tunin' upthe pipes he
bocht in Aiberdeen.
He blew sae hard, the skin wis
thin, the bag began tae swell,
An' awa' flew Jock wi' the
sheepskin pyok ower the Moss o' Burreldale.
The dogs they startit barkin',
the cuddy roared "Hee-haw!"
The tramps and hawkers a' turned
roun' an' sic a sicht they saw.
'Twis Docherty as black's Auld
Nick, the bairns lat oot a yell.
We shoodered oor packs an' a'
made tracks fae the Moss o' Burreldale.
Bit noo the spring cairt's ot o'
date, the shaltie it's ower slow.
The tramps and hawkers noo-a-days
hae langer roads tae go.
We a' maun hae a motor-car if we
wint oor goods tae sell.
Bit I'll ne'er forget the nichts
we met on the Moss o' Burreldale.
