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SONG 81.

To the Tune of the foregoing.


WHEN first my dear laddie gade to the



And I at ewe-milking first fey'd my young skill, To bear the milk bowie nae pain was to me, When I at the bughting forgather'd with thee.

Patie. When corn-rigs wav'd yellow, and blue hether.

bells Bloon's bonny on moorland and sweet rifing fells, Nae birns, briers, or brechens, ga'e trouble to me, If I found the berries right ripea'd for thec.

Peggy When thou ran, or wrestled, or putted the stane, And came aff the victor, my heart was ay fain : Thy ilka sport manlie ga'e pleasure to me; For nane can putt, wrestle, or run swift as thee.


Our Jenny fings faftly the Cowden broom knows, And Rosie lilts sweetly the milking tbe ewes ; There's few Jenny Nettles like Nancy can fing; At throw the wood, laddie, Bess gars our lugs ring;

But when my dear Peggy fings, with better skill,
The Boatman, Tweedfide, or the lass of the mill.
'Tis mony times sweeter and pleasant to me;
For tho' they fing nicely, they cannot like thee.


How easy can lasses trow what they defire! And praises fae kindly increases love's fire : Give me ftill this pleasure, my ftudy shall be, To make myself better and sweeter for thee.

SONG 182.


Patie. By the delicious warmness of thy mouth, And rowing eye, which smiling tells the truth, I guess, my laslie, that as well as I, You're made for love, and why should ye deny?

Peggy. But ken ye, lad, gin we confess o'er soon, Ye think us cheap, and fyne the wooing's done: The maiden that o'er quickly tines her pow'r, Like unripe fruit will taste but hard and sow'r.

Patie. But when they hing o'er lang upon the tree, Their sweetness they may tine, and sae may ye: Red cheeked you compleatly ripe appear, And I have thold and woo'd a lang ha'f year.


Then diona pu'me; gently thus I fa' Into my Paty's arms for good and a'; But stint


wishes to this frank embrace, And mint nae farther till we've



Patie. O charming armsfu'! hence, ye cares, away, I'll kiss my treasure a' the live-lang day; A’ night I'll dream nay kisses o'er again, 'Till that day come that ye'll be a' my



Sun, gallop down the westlin skies,
Gang foon to bed, and quickly rise:
Olash your steeds, post time away,
And hafte about our bridal day :
And if ye're wearied, honest light,
Sleep, gin ye like, a week, that night.

SONG 183

PATY's Mill.
HE lass of Paty's mill,

, So bonny, blyth, and gay, In spite of all my fkill,

Hath stole my heart away. When tedding of the hay

Bare headed on the green, Love 'midit her locks did play,

And wanton'd in her cen.

Her arms, white, round, and smooth,

Breasts rifing in their dawn, To age it would give youth,

To press 'em with his hand :
Through all my spirits ran

An extasy of bliss,
When I such sweetness fand

Wrapt in a balmy kiss.

Without the help of art,

Like flowers which grace the wild, She did her sweets impart,

Whene'er she spoke or smild. Her looks they were so mild,

Free from affected pride, She me to love beguild,

I wish'd her for my bride.

O had I all that wealth

Hoptoun's high mountain's fill, Infur'd long life and health,

And pleasures at my will ; I'd promise and fulfil,

That none but bonny she, The lass of Paty's mill,

Shou’j share the same with me.

SONG 184.

Wat ye wha I met yeftreen? Now wat ye wha I met yeftreen,

Coming down the street, my jo? My mistress in her tartan screen,

Fow bonny, braw, and sweet, my jo: My dear, quoth I, thanks to the night,

That never wilh'd a lover ill,
Since ye're out of your mither's light,

Let's take a wa'k up to the hill.

O Katy, wiltu' gang wi' me,

And leave the dinsome town a while? The blossom's sprouting frae the tree,

And a' the fimmer's gaw'n to smile : The mavis, nightingale, and lark,

The bleating lambs, and whilling hind,

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