Clout the Caldron

Have ye any pots or pans,

Or any broken chandlers?

I am a tinker to my trade,

And newly come frae Flanders,

As scant of siller as of grace:

Disbanded, we've a bad run;

Gar tell the lady of the place,

I'm come to clout her caldron.

Fa, adrie, diddie, diddle, &c.

Madam, if you have wark for me,

I'll do't to your contentment;

And dinna care a single flie

For any man's resentment;

For, lady fair, though I appear

To every ane a tinker,

Yet to yoursell I'm bauld to tell,

I am a gentle jinker.

Love Jupiter into a swan

Turned, for his loved Leda;

He like a bull ower meadows ran,

To carry off Europa.

Then may not I, as well as he,

To cheat your Argus blinker,

And win your love like mighty Jove,

Thus hide me in a tinker?

Sir, ye appear a cunning man;

But this fine plot you'll fail in;

For there is neither pot nor pan,

Of mine, you'll drive a nail in.

Then bind your budget on your back,

And nails up in your apron;

For I've a tinker under tack,

That's used to clout my ca'dron.