My Sunday's coat fhe has laid it a wad,
The beft blue bonnet e'er was on my head:
At kirk and at market I'm cover'd but barely.
O! gin, &c.

My bonny white mittens I wore on my hands,
Wi' her neighbour's wife fhe has laid them in pawns,
My bane headed ftaff that I loo'd fo dearly.

I never was for wrangling nor ftrife,

O! gin, &c.

Nor did I deny her the comforts of life,
For when there's a war, I'm ay for a parley.

O! gin, &c.

When there's ony money, fhe maun keep the purfe;
If I feek but a bawbie, she'll scold and she'll curfe;
She lives like a queen, I fcrimped and sparely
O! gin, &c.

A pint wi' her cummers I wad her allow,
But when he fits down, fhe gets hersel fu3,
And when she is fu' fhe is unco camftarie.

Q! gin, &c.

When she comes to the street, fhe roars and she rants, Has no fear of her neighbours, nor minds the house

wants;

She rants up fome fool fang, like, Up your heart, CHARLIE

O! gin, &c.

When she comes hame, the lays on the lads,
And laffes fhe ca's them baith b―s and j-s,
And ca's myfel' ay an auld cuckold carlie.

O! gin, &c.

་་་་་་་་་་

SONG 154.

WILLIE'S drown'd in YARROW.

WILLIE's rare, and Willie's fair,

And Willie's wondrous bony, And Willie hecht to marry me, Gin e'er he married ony.

Yeftreen I made my bed fu' braid,
This night I'll make it narrow;
For a' the live-lang winter-night
I'll ly twin'd of my marrow.

O came you by yon water-fide?
Pu'd you the rose or lily?

Or came you by yon meadow-green ?
Or faw ye my fweet Willie ?

She fought him eaft, fhe fought him welt,
She fought him braid and narrow;

Syne in the cleaving of a craig

She found him drown'd in Yarrow.

SONG 155.

YOUNG Strephon, I own, is the joy of my heart;

I love the dear youth, he's fo lively and smart; His converfe is pleafing, he's manly and gay, And his breath is as fweet as the flowers in May. When he fings his love trains, all the fwains in a throng,

In raptures are feen with my fhepherd's foft fong, While the nymphs all around me with envy furvey, Becaufe Strephon hails me the Queen of the May.

But love without jealoufy reigns on my part, For, as well as the May, I'm the queen of his heart; Such joy and delight does his conftancy bring, Without envy I'd look on the ftate of a king. T'other day for my head he a chaplet entwin'd, Of roses and myrtles, and jonquills combin'd; gave him a kifs for the favour, 'tis true, And how could I help it-I only ask you?

I

You'll fay I was forward, and greatly to blame, What girl for fuch favour would not do the fame ? For t'will not be long before Strephon and I, Shall join hands and hearts in one facred tie. Then, fure, when the church has performed its rites, And we firmly fixed in Hymen's delights,

For his faith and his troth, to bind all our bliss,

You'll furely allow-'tis my duty to kiss.

SONG 156.

Sung at RANELAGH.

As Colin rang'd early one morning in fpring,

S

To hear the wood's choristers warble and fing;
Young Phoebe he faw fupinely was laid,
And thus in fweet melody fung the fair maid;
And thus, &c.

Of all my experience how vaft the amount,
Since fifteen long winters I fairly can count!
Was ever poor damfel fo fadly betray'd,
To live to thefe years, and yet ftill be a maid;
To live, &c.

Ye heroes, triumphant by land and by fea,
Sworn vot'ries to love yet unmindful of me;
Of prowess approv'd of no dangers afraid,
Will you ftand by like daftards, and fee me a maid?
Will you, &c.

Ye counsellors fage, who, with eloquent tongue,
Can do what you please with right and with wrong,
Can it be or by law or by equity faid,

That a comely young girl ought to die an old maid?
That a comely, &c.

Ye learned phyficians, whofe excellent skill
Can fave or demolish, can heal or can kill ;

To a poor forlorn damfel contribute your aid,
Who is fick, very fick, of remaining a maid;
Who is fick, &c.

Ye ops, I invoke not to lift to my fong,

T

9anfwer no end, and to no fex belong ;
Ye echoes of echo, and ye fhadows of shade;
For if I had you, I might ftill be a maid;
For if, &c.

Young Colin was melted to hear her complain,
Then whisper'd relief, like a kind hearted fwain ;
And Phoebe, well pleas'd, is no longer afraid.
Of being neglected, and dying a maid;
Of being neglected, and dying a maid.

SONG 157.

The Rock and wee Pickle Tow.

THERE

HERE was an auld wife had a wee pickle tow,

And he wad gae try the fpinning o't,

But louten her down, her rock took a low,
And that was an ill beginning o't :

She lap and the grat, fhe flet and she flang,
She trow and the drew, fhe ringled, she rang,
She choaked, the bocked, and cried, Let me hang,
That ever I try'd the fpinning o't.