Andrew And His Cutty Gun

When a' the lave gaed to their bed, And I sat up to clean the shoon, O wha think ye cam jumping ben, But Andrew and his cutty gun. Blythe, blythe, blythe was she, Blythe was she but and ben, And weel she loved it in her neive, But better when it slippit in. Or e'er I wist he laid me back, And up my gamon to my chin, And ne'er a word to me he spak, But HI tit out his cutty gun. The bawsent bitch she left her whelps, And hunted round us at the fun, As Andrew dougled wi' his doup, And fir'd at me with his cutty gun. O some delight in cutty-stoup, And some delight in cutty-mum, But my delight an erselins coup, Wi' Andrew and his cutty gun. Blythe, blythe, blythe was she, Blythe was she but and ben, And weel she loved it in her neive, But better when it slippit in.