ON A SWEARING COXCOMB

HERE cursing, swearing Burton lies,
A buck, a beau, or " Dem my eyes!"
Who in his life did little good,

And his last words were

Dem my blood!

ON AN INNKEEPER NICKNAMED “THE MARQUIS"

HERE lies a mock Marquis, whose titles were shamm'd,
If ever he rise, it will be to be damn'd.

ON ANDREW TURNER

IN se'enteen hundred 'n forty-nine,
The deil gat stuff to mak a swine,
An' coost it in a corner;

But wilily he chang'd his plan,
An' shap'd it something like a man,
An' ca'd it Andrew Turner.

PRETTY PEG

As I gaed up by yon gate-end,
When day was waxin weary,
Wha did I meet come down the street,
But pretty Peg, my dearie!

Her air sae sweet, an' shape complete,
Wi' nae proportion wanting,

The Queen of Love did never move
Wi' motion mair enchanting.

Wi' linked hands we took the sands,
Adown yon winding river;

Oh, that sweet hour and shady bower,
Forget it shall I never!

ESTEEM FOR CHLORIS

Aн, Chloris, since it may not be,
That thou of love wilt hear;
If from the lover thou maun flee,
Yet let the friend be dear.

Altho' I love my Chloris mair
Than ever tongue could tell;
My passion I will ne'er declare-
I'll say, I wish thee well.

Tho' a' my daily care thou art,
And a' my nightly dream,

I'll hide the struggle in my heart,
And say it is esteem.

SAW YE MY DEAR, MY PHILLY
Tune-"When she cam' ben she bobbit."

O SAW ye my Dear, my Philly?
O saw ye my Dear, my Philly,

She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new Love,
She winna come hame to her Willy.

What says she my dear, my Philly? What says she my dear, my Philly? She lets thee to wit she has thee forgot, And forever disowns thee, her Willy.

O had I ne'er seen thee, my Philly!
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Philly!

As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair,
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy.

HOW LANG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT

How lang and dreary is the night

When I am frae my Dearie;

I restless lie frae e'en to morn

Though I were ne'er sae weary.

Chorus. For oh, her lanely nights are lang!
And oh, her dreams are eerie;

And oh, her widow'd heart is sair,
That's absent frae her Dearie!

When I think on the lightsome days
I spent wi' thee, my Dearie;
And now what seas between us roar,
How can I be but eerie?
For oh, &c.

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours;
The joyless day how dreary:

It was na sae ye glinted by,
When I was wi' my Dearie!
For oh, &c.

INCONSTANCY IN LOVE

Tune-"Duncan Gray."

LET not Woman e'er complain
Of inconstancy in love;
Let not Woman e'er complain
Fickle Man is apt to rove:

Look abroad thro' Nature's range,
Nature's mighty Law is change,
Ladies, would it not seem strange
Man should then a monster prove!

Mark the winds, and mark the skies,
Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow,
Sun and moon but set to rise,

Round and round the seasons go.
Why then ask of silly Man
To oppose great Nature's plan?
We'll be constant while we can-

You can be no more you know.

THE LOVER'S MORNING SALUTE TO HIS
MISTRESS

Tune-" Deil tak the wars."

SLEEP'ST thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature?
Rosy morn now lifts his eye,
Numbering ilka bud which Nature

Waters wi' the tears o' joy.

Now, to the streaming fountain,

Or up the heathy mountain,

The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-wanton stray;

In twining hazel bowers,

Its lay the linnet pours,

The laverock to the sky

Ascends, wi' sangs o' joy,

While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.

Phoebus gilding the brow of morning,

Banishes ilk darksome shade,

Nature, gladdening and adorning;

Such to me my lovely maid.
When frae my Chloris parted,

Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted,

The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast

my sky:

But when she charms my sight,
In pride of Beauty's light-
When thro' my very heart

Her burning glories dart;

'Tis then 'tis then I wake to life and joy!

THE WINTER OF LIFE

BUT lately seen in gladsome green,
The woods rejoic'd the day,

Thro' gentle showers, the laughing flowers
In double pride were gay:
But now qur joys are fled
On winter blasts awa;
Yet maiden May, in rich array,
Again shall bring them a'.

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe
Shall melt the snaws of Age;
My trunk of eild, but buss or beild,
Sinks in Time's wintry rage.

Oh, Age has weary days,

And nights o' sleepless pain:

Thou golden time, o' Youthfu' prime,
Why comes thou not again!

BEHOLD, MY LOVE, HOW GREEN THE GROVES

Tune-"My lodging is on the cold ground."

BEHOLD, my love, how green the groves,
The primrose banks how fair;
The balmy gales awake the flowers,
And wave thy flowing hair.

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay,

And o'er the cottage sings: