II.

Why does my love Willy prove false and unkind?
Ah! why does he change like the wavering wind,
From one that is loyal in every degree?
Ah! why does he change to another from me?
Or does he take pleasure to torture me so?
Or does he delight in my fad overthrow?
Sufanna will always prove true to her trust,
'Tis pity lov'd Willy should prove so unjust.

III.

In the meadows as we were a-making of hay,
There did we pass the soft minutes away;
Then was I kiss'd and fet down on his knee,
No man in the world was so loving as he.
And as he went forth to harrow and plow,
I milk'd him sweet fillabubs under my cow :
O then I was kifs'd as I sat on his knee !
No man in the world was so loving as he.

IV.

But now he has left me, and Fanny the fair Employs all his wishes, his thoughts, and his care: He kiffes her lip as she fits on his knee,

And fays all the sweet things he once faid to me:
But if she believe him, the falfe-hearted swain
Will leave her, and then she with me may complain.
For nought is more certain, believe filly Sue,
Who once has been faithless can never be true.

V.

She finished her fong, and rose up to be gone, When over the meadow came jolly young John, Who told her that she was the joy of his life, And if she'd confent, he wou'd make her his wife:

She cou'd not refuse him, so to church they went ; Young Willy's forgot, and young Sufan's content. Moft men are like Willy, most women like Sue; If men will be false, why shou'd women be true?

The Cobler.

I.

ACOBLER there was, and he liv'd in a stall,

Which ferv'd him for parlour, for kitchen, and hall;

No coin in his pocket, nor care in his pate,
No ambition had he, nor no duns at his gate.
Derry down, down, down derry down.

II.

Contented he work'd, and he thought himself happy If at night he cou'd purchase a cup of brown nappy; He'd laugh then and whistle, and fing too most sweet, Saying, Just to a hair I've made both ends meet.

Derry down, &c.

III.

But love, the disturber of high and of low,
That shoots at the peasant as well as the beau,
He shot the poor cobler quite thro' the heart,
I wish it had hit fome more ignoble part.
Derry down, &c.

IV.

It was from a cellar this archer did play,
Where a buxom young damfel continually lay;
Her eyes fhone so bright when the rose every day,
That she shot the poor cobler straight over the way.
Derry down, &c.

V.

He fung her love-fongs as he fat at his work,
But she was as hard as a Jew or a Turk :
Whenever he spoke, she wou'd flounce, and wou'd tear;
Which put the poor cobler quite into despair.

Derry down, &c.

VI.

He took up his awl that he had in the world,
And to make away with himself was refolv'd,
He pierc'd thro' his body instead of the fole:
So the cobler he died, and the bell it did toll.
Derry down, &c.

The bonny Earl of MURRAY.

Έ

I.

YE Highlands, and ye Lawlands,

Oh! where have you been?

They have flain the Earl of Murray,
And they laid him on the green!
They have, &c.

II.

Now wae be to thee, Huntly,

And wherefore did you fae?

I bade you bring him wi' you,
But forbade you him to slay.
I bade, &c.

III.

He was a braw gallant,

And he rid at the ring;

And the bonny Earl of Murray,
Qh! he might have been a king.
And the, &c.

IV.

He was a braw gallant,

And he play'd at the ba':

And the bonny Earl of Murray
Was the flower amang them a'.
And the, &c.

He was a braw gallant,

And he play'd at the glove:
And the bonny Earl of Murray,
Oh! he was the queen's love.
And the, &c.

VI.

Oh! lang will his lady

Look o'er the castle Down,

Ere she fee the Earl of Murray
Come founding thro' the town.
Ere fhe, &c.

If e'er I do well, 'tis a Wonder.

I.

WHEN I was a young lad,

My fortune was bad;

If e'er I do well, 'tis a wonder:

I spent all my means

On whores, bawds, and queans: Then I got a commiffion to plunder. Fal al de ral, &c.

II.

The hat I have on,
So greafy is grown,

Remarkable 'tis for its shining;

'Tis ftitch'd all about,

Without button or loop,

And never a bit of a lining.
Fal al de ral, &c.

III.

The coat I have on,

So thread-bare is grown,

So out at the armpits and elbows,

That I look as abfurd

As a failor on board,

That has ly'n fifteen months in the bilboes. Fal al de ral, &c.

IV.

My shirt it is tore

Both behind and before,

The colour is much like a cinder;

'Tis fo thin and so fine,

That it is my defign

To present it to the muses for tinder.

Fal al de ral, &c.

V.

My blue fuftian breeches

Is wore to the stitches,

My legs you may fee what's between them;