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CII. If e'er I do well 'tis a wonder.

WHEN I was a young lad, my fortune was bad;

If e'er I do well 'tis a wonder.

Ifpent all my means on whores, bawds, and queans;
Then I got a commiffion to plunder.

The hat I have on fo greafy is grown,
Remarkable 'tis for its fhining;

'Tis ftiteht all about, without button or loop,
And never a bit of a lining.

The coat I have on, fo thread-bare is grown,
So out at the arm-pitts and elbows;

That I look as abfurd as a failor on board,

That has lain fifteen months in the bilboes. My fhirt it is tere, both behind and before; The colour is much like a cinder ;

'Tis fo thin and fo fine, that it is my defign
To prefent it the mufes for tinder.

My blue fuftain breeches are wore to the ftitches,
My legs you may fee what's between them;
My pockets, all four, I'm the fon of a whore,,
If there's ever one farthing within them.
I have ftockings, 'tis true, but the devil a fhoe;
I'm oblig'd to wear boots in all weather.
Be damn'd the boot fole, curfe on the fpur-roll,.
Confounded be the upper-leather,

Had ye but feen the fad plight I'was in,.

Ye'd not feen fuch a poet 'mongst twenty,

I've nothing that's full, but my fhirt and my fcull,
For my pockets and belly are empty.

Fall, all, de ral, &c.

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To be the comfort of my life,
And I was glad to have her.
But if your providence divine
For greater blifs defign her,
T' obey your wills at any time,
I'm ready to resign her.

B

CIV. Love is the Caufe of my Mourning.

Y a murm'ring ftream a fair fhepherdefs lay,
Be fo kind, O ye nymphs! I oft times heard her
say,

Tell Strephon I die, if he paffes this way,

And that love is the cause of my mourning.

Falfe hepherds, that tell me of beauty and charms,
You deceive me, for Strephon's cold heart never warms
Yet bring me this Strephon, let me die in his arms,
Oh! Strephan the cause of my mourning

But first, faid fhe, let me go down to the fhades below,
Ere ye let Strephon know that I lov'd him fo
Then on my pale cheeks no blushes will show,
That love was the caufe of my mourning,

Her eyes were fearce clofed when Strephon came by,
He thought he'd been fleeping, and foftly drew nigh::
But finding her breathlefs, O heav'ns ! did he.cry,
Ab Chloris! the cause of my mourning...

Restore me my Chloris, ye nymphs, ufe your art.
They, fighing, reply'd, 'Twas yourself fhot the dart,
That wounded the tender young fhepherdefs's heart,
And kill'd the poor Chloris with mourning..

Ah then! is Chlaris dead, wounded by me, he faid I'll follow thee, chaste maid, down to the filent fhade; Then on her cold fnowy breaft, leaning his head, Expir'd the poor Strephon with mourning,

IN

CV. The Yellow-hair'd Laddie.

N April, when primrofes paint the fweet plain, And fummer approaching, rejoicéth the swain; The yellow-hair'd laddie would often times go

To wilds and deep glens, where the hawthorn-trees› grow.

There, under the fhade of an old facred thorn,
With freedom be fung his loves ev'ning and morn
He fang with fo faft and enchanting a found,
That Silvans and Faries, unfeen, danc'd around.
The fhepherd thus fung: Tho' young Madie be fair,.
Her beauty was dash'd with a scornfu' proud air,
But Sufie is handfome, and fweetly can fing
Her breath's like the breezes perfum'd in the fpring,
That Madie, in all the gay bloom of her youth,
Like the moon was unconftant, and never spoke truth ;:
But Sufie is faithful, good-humour'd, and free,
And fair as the goddefs who fprung from the fea.
That mamma's fine daughter, with all her great dow'r,
Was aukwardly airy, and frequently four:
Then, fighing, he wish'd, would parents agree,
The witty, fweet Sufie his Mistress might be..

CVI

TH HERE was a jolly beggar, and a begging he wass

bound,

And he took up his quarters into a land'art town;
And we'll gang nae mair d' roving,

Sae late into the night

And we'll gang nae mair a rowing, boys,

Let the moon fbine ne'er fae bright.;

And we'll gang nae mare a roving.

He wad neither ly in barn, nor yet wad he in byre, But in a hint the ha' door, or elfe afore the fire.

The beggar's bed was made at e'en wi' good clean straw and hay,

And in a hint the ha' door, and there the beggar lay. Up raife the goodman's dochter, and for to bar the door,

And there the faw the beggar stiff standing i' the floor,
He took the laffic in his arms, and to the bed he ran i
Ohooly! hooly! wi' me, Sir, ye'll waken our goodman.
The beggar was a cunnin' loon, and ne'er a word he
fpak,

Until he got his turn done, fyne he began to crack.
Is there ony dogs into this town? maiden, tell me true.
And what wad ye do wi' them ? my hinny and my dow.
They'll rive a' my meal pocks, and do me meikle wrang,
dool for the doin' o't! are ye the poor man?

Then she took up the meel pocks, and flang them o'er the wa'.

The d-l gae we the meal pocks, my maiden-head and a'.

I took ye for fome gentleman, at leaft the Laird Brodie,
O dool for the doing o't! are ye the poor bodie?
He took the laffie in his arms, and gae her kiffes three,
And four and twenty hundred merk to pay the nurice

fee.

He took a horn frae his fide, and blew baith loud and

fhrill,

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And four and twenty belted knights came skippin o'er the hill.

And he took out his little knife, loot a' his duddies fa', And he was the braweft gentleman that was amang

them a'.

The beggar was a clever loon, and he lap fhoulder

height.

O ay for ficken quarters as I gat yefternight.

CVII. The Archers March.

SOUND, found the mufic, found it;
Let hills and dales rebound it;
Let hills and dales rebound it ;
In praise of archery.

Its origin divine is,

The practice brave and fine is.
Which generously inclines us,
To guard our liberty,:

Art, by the gods employed,
By which our heroes enjoyed,
By which our heroes enjoyed
The wreaths of victory.

The deity of Parnaffus,
The god of foft careffes,

Chafte Cynthia, and her laffes
Delight in archery.

See, fee yon bow extended!
'Tis Jove himself that bends it,
'Tis Jove himfelf that bends it,

O'er clouds on high it glows."

All nations, Turks, and Parthians,
The Tartars, and the Scythians,
The Arabs, Moors, and Indians,

With bravery draw their bows.

Our own true records tell us,
That none cou'd e'er excel us,
That none cou'd e're excel us
In martial archery.
With fhafts our fires engaging,
Oppos'd the Roman's raging,
Defeat the fierce Norwegian,

And fpar'd few Danes to flee.

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