We ne'er meet our foes but we wish them to stay'; They never meet us, but they with us away;
If they run, then we follow, and run them afhore; For if they won't fight us, we cannot do more, Hearts of oak are our ships, &c.
They talk to invade us, our terrible foes!. They frighten our women, our children and beaux; But if their flat bottems in darkness come o'er, ' Sure Britons they'll find to receive them on shore. Hearts of oak are our ships, &c.
We'll make them to run, and we'll make them to sweat,
In fpite of the devil and Bruffel's Gazette.
Then chear up my lads, with one heart let us fing, Our foldiers, our failors, our ftatefmen and king. Hearts of oak are our flips, &c.
THE meal was dear fhort fyne,
We buckl'd us a' the gither;
And Magie was in her prime,
When Willie made courtship till her.
Twa piftols charg'd beguess,
To gie the courting fhot:
And fyne came ben the lafs,
Wi' fwats drawn frae the butt,
He firft fpeer'd at the guidman,
And fyne at Giles the mither.
An ye wad gie's a bit land,
We'd buckle us e'en the gither.
My doughter ye shall hae,
I'll gie you her by the hand:
But I'll part wi' my wife, by my
Or I part wi' my land.
Your tocher it fall be good,
There's nane fall hae its maik ;
The lafs bound in her fnood,
And Crummy wha kens her stake
Wi' an auld bedden o' claiths,
Was lelt me by my mither,
They're jet black o'er wi' flaes,.
Ye
may cuddle in them the gither.
Ye fpeak right weel, guidman,
But ye maun mend your hand,
And think o' modesty,
Gin ye'll not quat your land:
We are but young ye ken,
And now we're gaun the gither;
A houfe is butt and ben,
And Crummie will want her fother;
The bairns are coming on,"
And they'll cry, O their mither!
We have neither pat nor pan,
But four bare legs the gither.
Your tocher's be good enough,
For that you need na fear,
Twa good ftilts to the pleugh,
And ye your fell maun steer
Ye shall hae twa good pocks,
That anes were o' the tweel,
The t'ane to had the grots,
The ither to had the meal;
With ane old kift made of wands,
And that fall be your coffer,
Wi' aiken woody bands,
And that may had your tocher.
Confider well, guidman,
We hae but borrowed gear,
The horse that I ride on
Is Sandy Wilfon's mare:
The faddle's nane of my ain,
And thae's but borrow'd boots,"
And whan that I gae hame,
I maun take to my koots :
The cloak is Geordy Watt's,
That gars me look fae croufe;
Come fill us a cog of swats,
We'll make na mair toom roufe. !
I like you well, young lad,
For telling me fae plain:
I married when little I had
O' gear that was my ain;
But fin that things are fae,
The bride fhe maun come forth,
Tho' a' the gear fhe'll hae,
It'll be but little worth..
A bargain it maun be;
Fy cry on Giles the mither;
Content, I am, quo' fhe,
E'en gar the hiffie come hither..
The bride the gade till her bed,.
The bridegroom he came till her;
The fidler crap in at the fit,
An' they cuddl'd it a' the gither.
ROM the man that I love' tho' my heart I disguise,, I will freely diftinguish the wretch I defpife;
And if he had the fenfe to ballance à ftraw;
He would furely take a hint from the picture I draw. Fal de ral, &c,
As a peacock in pride, in grimace a baboon,
In courage a hind, in conceit à Gafcoon:
And if he had the fenfe, but to ballance a straw,
He would furely take a hint from the picture I draw.,
Fal de ral, &c.
A wit without fenfe, without fancy a beau,
Like a parrot he prattles, and ftruts like a crow;
And if he had the fenfe but to ballance a. ftraw,
He would furely take a hint from the picture I draw..
Fal de ral, &c.
As a vultre rapacious, as fierce as a hog;
In mifchief an ape, and in fawning a dog.
In a word, to fum up all his talents together,
His brains are of lead, and his head as a feather,
And if he had the fenfe but to ballance a straw,
He would furely take a hint from the picture I draw.
Fal de ral, &c.
LESS'D as th' immortal gods is he,
The youth who fondly fits by thee,
And hears and fees thee all the while
Softly speak, and fweetly fmile.
'Twas this depriv'd my foul of rest,
And rais'd fuch tumults in my breast;
For while I gaz'd in tranfport toft.
My breath was gone, my voice was loft.
My bofom glow'd; the fubtil flame
Ran quick through all my vital frame:
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung;
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.
With dewy damps my limbs were chill'd;
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd:
My feeble pulfe forgot to play;
I fainted, funk, and dy'd away.
WHY heaves my fond bofom? Ah, what can it
Why flutters my heart, that was once fo ferene?
Why this fighing and trembling, when Daphne is near!
Or why, when fhe's abfent, this forrow and fear !
For ever, methinks, I with wonder could trace
The thousand foft charms that embellish your face.
Each moment I view thee, new beauties I find ;
With thy face I am charm'd, but enflav'd by thy mind.
Untainted by folly, unfulled by pride;
There native good humour and virtue refide.
Pray heav'n that virtue thy foul may supply,
With compaffion for him, who, without thee, muft die.
CAN love be controul'd by advice?
Can ma dnefs and reafon agree?
O Molly, who'd ever be wife,
If madness is loving of thee?
Let fages pretend to defpife
The joys they want spirits to taste;
Let me feize old time as he flies,
And the bleffings of life while they laft.
Dull wisdom but adds to our care,
Brifk love will improve ev'ry joy;
Too foon we may meet with grey hairs;
Too late may repent being coy.
Then, Molly, for what fhould we stay,
Till our beft blood begins to run cold!
Our youth we can have but to day,
We may always find time to grow old.
CAN lawless defire be call'd love?
Can reafon and folly agree?
O Molly, if wife you would prove,
Take care that you be not too free.
Let profligate wretches pretend,
They alone have a relifh for joy;
They affirm what they cannot defend,
And themselves their own pleasures destroy.
Bright wifdom relieves all our cares;
Mad paffion produces distress,
Conveying it down to gray hairs,
Too late for the hope of redrefs.
Then, Molly, be kind to the youth,
Whofe virtue deferves your refpe&t;
His ardour, attended with truth,
Will prevent any fears of neglect.
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