CII. If e'er I do well 'tis a wonder. WHEN I was a young lad, my fortune was bad; If e'er I do well 'tis a wonder. Ifpent all my means on whores, bawds, and queans; The hat I have on fo greafy is grown, 'Tis ftiteht all about, without button or loop, The coat I have on, fo thread-bare is grown, That I look as abfurd as a failor on board, That has lain fifteen months in the bilboes. My fhirt it is tere, both behind and before; The colour is much like a cinder ; 'Tis fo thin and fo fine, that it is my defign My blue fuftain breeches are wore to the ftitches, Had ye but feen the fad plight I'was in,. Ye'd not feen fuch a poet 'mongst twenty, I've nothing that's full, but my fhirt and my fcull, Fall, all, de ral, &c. 1 To be the comfort of my life, B CIV. Love is the Caufe of my Mourning. Y a murm'ring ftream a fair fhepherdefs lay, Tell Strephon I die, if he paffes this way, And that love is the cause of my mourning. Falfe hepherds, that tell me of beauty and charms, But first, faid fhe, let me go down to the fhades below, Her eyes were fearce clofed when Strephon came by, Restore me my Chloris, ye nymphs, ufe your art. Ah then! is Chlaris dead, wounded by me, he faid I'll follow thee, chaste maid, down to the filent fhade; Then on her cold fnowy breaft, leaning his head, Expir'd the poor Strephon with mourning, IN CV. The Yellow-hair'd Laddie. N April, when primrofes paint the fweet plain, And fummer approaching, rejoicéth the swain; The yellow-hair'd laddie would often times go To wilds and deep glens, where the hawthorn-trees› grow. There, under the fhade of an old facred thorn, CVI TH HERE was a jolly beggar, and a begging he wass bound, And he took up his quarters into a land'art town; Sae late into the night And we'll gang nae mair a rowing, boys, Let the moon fbine ne'er fae bright.; And we'll gang nae mare a roving. He wad neither ly in barn, nor yet wad he in byre, But in a hint the ha' door, or elfe afore the fire. The beggar's bed was made at e'en wi' good clean straw and hay, And in a hint the ha' door, and there the beggar lay. Up raife the goodman's dochter, and for to bar the door, And there the faw the beggar stiff standing i' the floor, Until he got his turn done, fyne he began to crack. Then she took up the meel pocks, and flang them o'er the wa'. The d-l gae we the meal pocks, my maiden-head and a'. I took ye for fome gentleman, at leaft the Laird Brodie, fee. He took a horn frae his fide, and blew baith loud and fhrill, 1 And four and twenty belted knights came skippin o'er the hill. And he took out his little knife, loot a' his duddies fa', And he was the braweft gentleman that was amang them a'. The beggar was a clever loon, and he lap fhoulder height. O ay for ficken quarters as I gat yefternight. CVII. The Archers March. SOUND, found the mufic, found it; Its origin divine is, The practice brave and fine is. Art, by the gods employed, The deity of Parnaffus, Chafte Cynthia, and her laffes See, fee yon bow extended! O'er clouds on high it glows." All nations, Turks, and Parthians, With bravery draw their bows. Our own true records tell us, And fpar'd few Danes to flee. |