Lyr Req: Tibby Fowler o' the Glen

Subject: Tibby Fowler O' The Glen
From: GUEST,Peter
Date: 22 Aug 02 - 12:03 PM

Can anyone provide me with the words of the son "Tibby Fowler [O' The Glen]"? It seems better known as a Strathspey than as a ballad, but has interesting words, only a fraction of which are discernable in my one recording.

Subject: Lyr Add: I'M TIBBY FOWLER O' THE GLEN (S Blamire)
From: MMario
Date: 22 Aug 02 - 12:27 PM

would this be it?

I'M TIBBY FOWLER O' THE GLEN.
(Blamire, Susanna, 1747-1794)

I'M Tibby Fowler o' the glen,
And nae great sight to see, sirs;
But 'cause I'm rich, these plaguy men
Will never let me be, sirs.

There's bonny Maggy o' the brae
As gude as lass can be, sirs;
But 'cause I'm rich these plaguy men
Hae a' run wud for me, sirs.

There's Nabob Jock comes strutting ben,
He thinks the day's his sin, sirs;
But were he a' hung round wi' goud,
He'd find himsel mista'en, sirs.

There's Wat aye tries to glowr and sigh
That I may guess the cause, sirs;
But Jenny-like I hate to spell
Dumb Roger's hums and ha's, sirs.


There's grinning Pate laughs a' day through,
The blithest lad ye'll see, sirs;
But troth he laughs sae out o' place,
He'd laugh gin I did die, sirs.

There's Sandy, he's sae fou o' lear,
To talk wi' him is vain, sirs;
For gin we a' should say 'twas fair,
He'd prove that it did rain, sirs.

Then Jamie frets for good and ill,
'Bout sma' things makes a phrase, sirs;
And fears and frets, and things o' nought
Ding o'er his joyfu' days, sirs.

The priests and lawyers ding me dead,
But gude kens wha's the best, sirs;
And then comes in the soldier brave,
And drums out a' the rest, sirs.

The country squire and city beau,
I've had them on their knee, sirs;
But weel I ken to goud they bow,
And no to downright me, sirs.

Should like o' them come ilka day,
They may wear out the knee, sirs;
And grow to the ground as fast as a stane,
But they shall ne'er get me, sirs.

Subject: RE: Tibby Fowler O' The Glen
From: Jim McLean
Date: 22 Aug 02 - 12:57 PM

There's another version

Tibbie Fowler o' the glen,
There's ower mony woo'in at her
repeat
Wooin' at her, pu'in at her, courtin' at her, canna get her
Filthy elf it's for her pelf
That a' the lads are wooin at her

There's another 5 verses but I'll give them to you if this is the right one
Jim Mclean

Subject: RE: Tibby Fowler O' The Glen
From: GUEST,Alice
Date: 22 Aug 02 - 01:12 PM

Just the other day I looked up TIBBIE FOWLER in an earlier thread on Mudcat. If you search the forum on TIBBIE, not Tibby, you'll get the lyrics.

There is more here, lyrics and some history,at:Tibbie Fowler.

Alice

Subject: Lyr Add: TIBBY FOWLER ("old" version)
From: Jim Dixon
Date: 07 Jan 08 - 07:03 PM

The following two versions both come from The Harp of Caledonia by John Struthers, 1821, page 329ff.

TIBBY FOWLER.
(Old Words.)

TIBBY Fowler o' the glen,
There's o'er mony wooing at her;
Tibby Fowler o' the glen,
There's o'er mony wooing at her.

CHORUS: Wooing at her, puing at her,
Courtin' at her, canna get her;
Filthy elf, it's for her pelf,
That a' the lads are wooing at her.

Ten came east, and ten came west,
Ten came rowing owre the water;
Twa came down the lang dyke-side;
There's twa an' thirty wooing at her.

There's seven but, and seven ben,
Seven in the pantry wi' her;
Twenty head about the door,
There's ane an' forty wooing at her.

She's got pendles in her lugs,
Cockle shells wad set her better:
Heigh heel'd shoon, an' siller tags,
An' a' the lads are wooing at her.

Be a lassie e'er sae black,
An' she hae the name o' siller,
Set her upo' Tintock tap,
The win' will blaw a man till her.

Be a lassie ne'er sae fair,
An' she want the pennie siller,
A flie may fell her i' the air,
Before a man be even'd till her.

Subject: Lyr Add: TIBBY FOWLER (newer version)
From: Jim Dixon
Date: 07 Jan 08 - 07:05 PM

TIBBY FOWLER.

THE brankit lairds o' Gallowa',
The hodden breeks o' Annan water,
The bonnets blue o' fair Nithsdale,
Are yont the hallen wooing at her.

Tweedshaw's tarry neives are here,
Brakshaw gabs frae Moffat water;
An' half the thieves o' Annandale,
Are come to steal her gear, and daut her.

I mind her weel in plaiden gown,
Afore she got her uncle's coffer;
The gleds might peck'd her yont the dyke,
Before the lads wad shor'd them aff her.

Now she's got a bawsent cowte,
Graithing sew'd wi' thread o' siller,
Silken sonks to haud her doup,
An' half the kintra's trystin' till her.

Sour plumbs are gude wi' sugar bak'd—
Slaes are sweet wi' kames o' hinnie;
The bowltest carlin i' the land,
Gowd can make her straught an' bonnie.

I wadna gie the rosie lips,
Wi' breath like mixed milk an' hinnie,
Which i' the gloaming dew I kist,
For Tibby wi' a mine o' monie.

I wadna gie the haffet locks,
Wi' blabs o' dew sae richly drapping;
Which lay yestreen upon my breast,
For Tibby wi' her lady happing.