JOCKEY'S TAEN THE PARTING KISS

Air-"Bonie lass tak a man.”

JOCKEY's taen the parting kiss,
O'er the mountains he is gane,
And with him is a' my bliss,

Nought but griefs with me remain,
Spare my Love, ye winds that blaw,
Plashy sleets and beating rain!
Spare my Love, thou feath'ry snaw,
Drifting o'er the frozen plain!

When the shades of evening creep
O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e,
Sound and safely may he sleep,
Sweetly blythe his waukening be.
He will think on her he loves,
Fondly he'll repeat her name;
For where'er he distant roves,
Jockey's heart is still the same.

VERSES TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL

FRIEND of the Poet, tried and leal,

Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal;
Alake, alake, the meikle deil

Wi' a' his witches

Are at it skelpin jig and reel,
In my poor pouches?

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it,
That One-pound-one, I sairly want it;
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it,
It would be kind;

And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted,
I'd bear't in mind.

So may the Auld year gang out moanin'
To see the New come laden, groanin',

Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin',
To thee and thine:

Domestic peace and comforts crownin'
The hale design.

POSTSCRIPT

Ye've heard this while how I've been lickit,

And by fell Death was nearly nickit;
Grim loon! he got me by the fecket,
And sair me sheuk;

But by gude luck I lap a wicket,
And turn'd a neuk.

But by that health, I've got a share o't,
But by that life, I'm promis'd mair o't,
My hale and weel, I'll tak a care o't,
A tentier way;

Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't,
For ance and aye!

THE DEAN OF FACULTY

A NEW BALLAD

Tune "The Dragon of Wantley."

DIRE was the hate at old Harlaw,
That Scot to Scot did carry;
And dire the discord Langside saw
For beauteous, hapless Mary:
But Scot to Scot ne'er met so hot,
Or were more in fury seen, Sir,

Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job,
Who should be the Faculty's Dean, Sir.

This Hal for genius, wit and lore,
Among the first was number'd;
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store,
Commandment the tenth remember'd:

Yet simple Bob the victory got,

And wan his heart's desire,

Which shews that heaven can boil the pot, Tho' the devil piss in the fire.

Squire Hal, besides, had in this case
Pretensions rather brassy;

For talents, to deserve a place,
Are qualifications saucy.
So their worships of the Faculty,

Quite sick of merit's rudeness,

Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see,
To their gratis grace and goodness.

As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight
Of a son of Circumcision,

So may be, on this Pisgah height,
Bob's purblind mental vision-
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be opened yet,
Till for eloquence you hail him,
And swear that he has the angel met
That met the ass of Balaam.

In your heretic sins may you live and die,
Ye heretic Eight-and-Thirty!

But accept, ye sublime Majority,

My congratulations hearty.

With your honours, as with a certain king,

In your servants this is striking,

The more incapacity they bring,

The more they're to your liking.

EPISTLE TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER

My honor'd Colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the Poet's weal;
Ah! now sma' heart hae I to speel
The steep Parnassus,

Surrounded thus by bolus pill,

And potion glasses.

O what a canty world were it,

Would pain and care and sickness spare it;

And Fortune favour worth and merit

As they deserve;

And aye rowth o' roast-beef and claret,
Syne, wha wad starve?

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, And in paste gems and frippery deck her; Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker

I've found her still,

Aye wavering like the willow-wicker,
'Tween good and ill.

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, Watches like baudrons by a ratton

Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on,

Wi' felon ire;

Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on, He's aff like fire.

Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair,
First showing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines, and bonie lasses rare,
To put us daft

Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare
O hell's damned waft.

Poor Man, the flie, aft bizzes by,
And aft, as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy damn'd auld elbow yeuks wi' joy

And hellish pleasure!

Already in thy fancy's eye,

Thy sicker treasure.

Soon, heels o'er gowdie, in he gangs,
And, like a sheep-head on a tangs,
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs,
And murdering wrestle,

As, dangling in the wind, he hangs,
A gibbet's tassel.

But lest you think I am uncivil

To plague you with this draunting drivel, Abjuring a' intentions evil,

I quat my pen,

The Lord preserve us frae the devil!

Amen! Amen!

A LASS WI' A TOCHER

Tune "Ballinamona Ora."

Awa' wi' your witchcraft o' Beauty's alarms,
The slender bit Beauty you grasp in your arms,
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms,
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms.

Chorus-Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher,
Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher;
Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher;
The nice yellow guineas for me.

Your Beauty's a flower in the morning that blows,
And withers the faster, the faster it grows:

But the rapturous charm o' the bonie green knowes,
Hk spring they're new deckit wi' bonie white yowes.
Then hey, for a lass, &c.

And e'en when this Beauty your bosom hath blest The brightest o' Beauty may cloy when possess'd; But the sweet, yellow darlings wi' Geordie impress'd, The langer ye hae them, the mair they're carest. Then hey, for a lass, &c.

HERON ELECTION BALLAD, NO. IV.
The Trogger.

Tune-"Buy Broom Besoms."

WHA Will buy my troggin, fine election ware,
Broken trade o' Broughton, a' in high repair?

Chorus-Buy braw troggin frae the banks o' Dee; Wha wants troggin let him come to me.

There's a noble Earl's fame and high renown,
For an auld sang-it's thought the gudes were stown—
Buy braw troggin, &c.