SONG CCCXXIII Gillikranky.
Onfefs thy Love, fair blushing Maid,
for fince thine Eye's confenting.
Thy lafter Thoughts are a' betray'd,
And Nafays no worth tenting.
Why aims thou to oppose thy Mind,
With Words thy With denying?
Since Nature made thee to be kind,
Reafon allows complying.
Nature and Reason's joint Confent
Make Love a facred Bleffing,
Then happily that Time is spent,
That's war'd on kind Careffing,
Come then my Katie to my Arms,
I'll be nae mair a Rover;
But find out Heaven in a' thy Charms,
And prove a faithful Lover.
She. What you defign by Nature's Law,
Is fleeting Inclination,
That Willy
By its Infatuation.
When that goes out, Careffes tire,
And Love's nae mair in Season,
Syne weakly we blaw up the Fire
With all our boafted Reafon.
He. The Beauties of inferior Caft
May ftart this juft Reflection.
But Charms like thine maun always laft,
Where Wit has the Protection.
Virtue and Wit, like April Rays,
Make Beauty rife the sweeter;
The langer then on thee I gaze,
My Love will grow compleater.
SONG CCCXXIV, Lady Anne
Bothwel's Lament.
Alow, my Boy, lye ftill and fleep,
It grieves me fore to hear thee weep;
If thou'lt be filent, I'll be glad,
Thy Mourning makes my Heart full fade
Balow, my Boy, thy Mother's Joy,
Thy Father bred me great Annoy.
Balor, my Boy, lye fill and fleep,
It grieves me fore to bear thee weep.
Balow, my Darling, fleep a while,
And when thou wak'ft then fweetly fmile
But fmile not as thy Father did,
To cozen Maids: Nay God forbid;
For in thine Eye his Look I fee,
The tempting Look that ruin'd me.
Balow, my Boy, &c.
When he began to court my Love,
And with his fugar'd Words to move,
His tempting Face and flatt'ring Chear,
In Time to me did not appear;
But now I fee that cruel "he
Cares neither for his Babe nor me.
Balow, my Boy, &c.
Farewel, farewel, thou falfeft Youth,
That ever kift a Woman's Mouth,
Let never any after me
Submit unto thy Courtesy:
For, if they do, O! cruel thou
Wilt her abufe, and care not how
Balow, my Boy, &c.
I was too cred'lous at the first,
To yield thee all a Maiden durft,
Thou fwore for ever true to prove,
Thy Faith unchang'd, unchang'd my Love; But quick as Thought the Change is wrought Thy Love's no more, thy Promife nought. Balow, my Boy, &c.
I wish I were a Maid again,
From young Men's Flattery I'd refrain,
For now unto my Grief I find
They all are perjur'd and unkind
Bewitching Charms bred all my Harms,
Withefs my Babe lies in my Arms.
Balow, my Boy, &c.
I take my Fate from bad to worfe,
That I must needs be now a Nurfe,
And lull my young Son on my Lap,
From me, fweet Orphan, take the Pap.
Balow, my Child, thy Mother mild
Shall wail as from all Blifs exil'd.
Balow, my Boy, &c.
Balow, my Boy, weep not for me,
Whofe greatest Grief's for wronging thee
Nor pity her deferved Smart,
Who can blame none but her fond Heart ;
For, too foon trufting latest finds
With faireft Tongues are falfeft Minds.
Balor, my Boy, &c.
Balow, my Boy, thy Father's fled,
When he the thrift lefs Son has play'd,
Of Vows and Daths, forgetful he
Preferr' the Wars to thee and me.
But now, perhaps, thy Curfe and mine
Make him eat Acorns with the Swine.
Balow, my Boy, &c.
But curfe not him, perhaps now he,
Stung with Remorfe, is bleffing thee:
Perhaps at Death; for who can tell
Whether the Judge of Heaven and Hell,
By fome proud Foe has ftruck the Blow,
And
dear Deceiver low.
I wish I were into the Bounds
Where he lies fmother'd in his Wounds,
Repeating as he pants for Air,
My Name, whom once he call'd his Fair.
No Woman's yet fo fiercely fet,
But fhe'll forgive, tho' not forget.
Balow, my Boy, &c.
If Linen lacks, for my Love's Sake,
Then quickly to him would I make
My Smock once for his Body meet,
And wrap him in that Winding-fheet.
Ah me! how happy had I been,
If he had ne'er been wrapt therein.
Balow, my Boy, &c.
Balow, my Boy, I'll weep for thee;
Too foon, alake, thou'It weep for me:
Thy Griefs are growing to a Sum,
God grant thee Patience when they come ;
Born to fuftain thy Mother's Shame,
A hapless Fate, a Baftard's Name.
Balow, my Boy, &c.
SONG CCCXXV. John Ochiltree.
Oneft Man John Ochiltree;
Mine ain auld John Ochiltree,
Wilt thou come o'er the Moor to me,,
And dance as thou was wont to do,
Alake, alake! I wont to do!
Obon, Obon! I wont to do!
Now wont to do's away frae me,
Frae Jilly auld John Ochiltrees
Honeft Man John Ochiltree,
Mine ain auld John Ochiltree,
Come anes out o'er the Moor to me,
And do but what thou dow to do.
Alake, alake! I dow to do!
Walaways! I dow to do!
To whoft and birple o'er my Tree,
My bony Moor-powt is a' I may do.
Walaways John Ochiltree,
For mony a Time I tell'd to thee,
Thou rade fae faft by Sea and Land,
And wadna keep a Bridle-hand;
Thou'd tine the Beaft, thy fell wad die,
My filly auld John Ochiltree.
Come to my Arms, my bony Thing,
And chear me up to bear thee fing
And tell me o'er a' we bae done,
For Thoughts maun now my Life fuftain.
Gae thy ways John Ochiltree;
Hae done! it has nae fa'r wi' me.
I'll fet the Beaft in throw the Land,
She'll may be fa' in a better Hand.
Ev'n fit thou there, and think thy fill,
For I'll do as I wont to do ftill.
SONG CCCXXVI. Jenny beguil'd the Webster.
The auld CHORUS.
Up Stairs, down Stairs,
Timber Stairs fear me.
I'm laith to lye a Night my lane,`
And Johny's Bed fae near me,
Mither dear, I'gin to fear,
The I'm baith good and bony,
I winna keep; for in my Sleep
I start and dream of Jobny.
When Jobny then comes down the Glen,
To woo me, dinna hinder;
But with Content gi' your Confent;
For we twa ne'er can finder.
Better to marry than mifcarry;
For Shame and Skaith's the Clink o't,
To thole the Dool, to mount the Stool,
I downa 'bide to think o't:
Sae while 'tis Time, I'll fhun the Crime,
That gars poor Epps gae Whinging,
With Hainches fow, and Een fae blew,
To a' the Bedrals binging.
Had Eppy's Apron bidden down,
The Kirk had ne'er a kend it;
But when the Word's gane thro' the Town,
Alake! how can the mend it?
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