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JOCKEY'S TAEN THE PARTING KISS
Air "Bonie lass tak a man."
JOCKEY's taen the parting kiss,
Nought but griefs with me remain,
When the shades of evening creep
VERSES TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL
FRIEND of the Poet, tried and leal,
Wi' a' his witches
Are at it skelpin jig and reel,
I modestly fu' fain wad hint it,
It would be kind;
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted,
So may the Auld year gang out moanin'
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin',
Domestic peace and comforts crownin'
Ye've heard this while how I've been lickit,
And by fell Death was nearly nickit;
But by gude luck I lap a wicket,
But by that health, I've got a share o't,
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't,
THE DEAN OF FACULTY
A NEW BALLAD
Tune "The Dragon of Wantley."
DIRE was the hate at old Harlaw,
Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job,
This Hal for genius, wit and lore,
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
For talents, to deserve a place,
Quite sick of merit's rudeness,
Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see,
As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight
So may be, on this Pisgah height,
In your heretic sins may you live and die,
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
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,
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,
Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on,
Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on,
Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair,
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare
Poor Man, the flie, aft bizzes by,
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,
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs,
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!
A LASS WI' A TOCHER
AwA' wi' your witchcraft o' Beauty's alarms,
Chorus-Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher,
Your Beauty's a flower in the morning that blows,
But the rapturous charm o' the bonie green knowes,
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.
Tune-"Buy Broom Besoms."
WHA will buy my troggin, fine election ware,
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,