Have you any pots or pans,
Or any broken chandlers?
I am a tinkler to my trade,
And newly come frae Flanders:
As scant of siller as of grace,
Disbanded, we 've a bad run;
Gae tell the lady of the place,
I 'm come to clout her caldron.
Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c.

Madam, if you have wark for me,
I 'll do 't to your contentment,
And dinna care a single flea
For any man's resentment:
For, lady fair, tho' I appear
To every ane a tinkler,
Yet to yoursell I 'm bauld to tell,
I am a gentle jinker.
Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c.

Love Jupiter into a swan
Turn'd, for his lovely Leda;
He like a bull o'er meadows ran
To carry off Europa:
Then may not I as well as he,
To cheat your Argos blinker,
And win your love, like mighty Jove,
Thus hide me in a tinkler?
Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c.

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 tinkler under tack,
That 's us'd to clout my caldron.
Fa adrie, didle, didle, &c.