Rouze up thy Reason, my beautifu' Annie, And never prefer a light Dancer to me; ! as thou art bony be conftant and canny,

Love only thy Jamie wha doats upon thee. O! think, my dear Charmer, on ilka fweet Hour,

That flade away faftly between thee and me; Ere Squirrels, or Beaus, or Fopp'ry had Power To rival my Love, and impofe upon thee. Rouze up thy Reafon, my beautifu' Annie, And let thy Defires be a' center'd in me; O! as thou art bonny be faithfu' and canny, And love him wha's langing to center in thee. SONG CCCLXVI. An old, &c. N old Baboon, of rueful Mien,

A

Having long time a Courtier been,
And many Revolutions feen,

Amafs'd up Wealth great Store.
This Magnet draws him many Friends,
Whom, Courtier-like, he condefcends
To promife what he ne'er intends,
Or never thinks on more.

They, in Return, his Levee grace,
Some praise his Wit, his Shape, his Face,
In hopes to gain fome pretty Place;
But mark, how Fate devis'd!
An Order came from Court one Day,
To take his ill-got Wealth away;
And like the Feather-borrowing Jay,
Divested, he's defpis'd.

SONG CCCLXVII. Ye filvan, &ci
E filvan Powers that rule the Plains,
Where fweetly winding Fortha glides;

Y

Conduct me to her Banks again,

Since there iny charming Molly bides. Thefe Banks that breathe their vernal Sweets Where every fmiling Beauty meets;

Where Molly's Charms adorn the Plain,
And chear the Heart of every Swain.
Thrice happy were thefe golden Days,
When I, amidst the rural Throng,
On Fortba's Meadows breath'd my Lays,
And Molly's Charms were all my Song,
While fhe was prefent all were gay,
No Sorrow did our Mirth allay;
We fung of Pleasure, fung of Love,
And Mufick breath'd in every Grove,
O then! Was I the happieft Swain,
No adverfe Fortune marr'd my Joy;
The Shepherds figh'd for her in vain,
On me the fmil'd, to them was coy.
O'er Fortha's mazy Burks we ftray'd,
I woo'd, I lov'd the beauteous Maid;
The beauteous Maid my Love return'd,
And both with equal Ardour burn'd.
Oft on the graffy Bank reclin'd,

Where Forth flow'd by in Murmurs deep,
It was my happy Chance to find
The charming Molly lull'd afleep;
My Heart then leap'd with inward Blifs,
foftly ftoop'd and steal'd a Kifs;
She wak'd, the blufh'd, to chide me fell,
But fmil'd as if fhe lik'd it well.
Oft in the thick embow'ring Groves,

Where Birds their Mufick chirp'd aloud,
Alternately we fung our Loves,

And Fortba's fair Meanders view'd.
The Meadows wore a general Smile,
Love was our Banquet all the while:
The lovely Profpect charm'd the Eye,
To where the Ocean met the Sky.
Ye filvan Powers, ye rural Gods,

To whom we Swains our Cares impart ;
Reftore me to thefe bleft Abodes,

And cafe, oh! cafe my Love-fick Heart; Thefe happy Days again reftore,

hen Molly and I shall part no more &

When the fhall fill these longing Arms,
And crown my Bliss with all her Charms.

SONG CCCLXVIII. Zeno, Plato, &c,

Z

ENO, Plato, Ariftotle,

All were Lovers of the Bottle;
Poets, Painters, and Muficians,
Churchmen, Lawyers, and Physicians,
All admire a pretty Lafs,

All require a chearful Glass:
Ev'ry Pleasure has its Season,
Love and Drinking are no Treafon.

W

SONG CCCLXIX. Willy was, &c.
ILLY was a wanton Wag,
The blytheft Lad that e'er I faw,
At Bridals still he bore the Brag,
And carried ay the gree awa:
His Doublet was of Zetland Shag,
And wow! but Willy he was braw,
And at his Shouder hang a Tag,
That pleas'd the Laffes beft of a'.
He was a Man without a Clag,
His Heart was frank without a Flaw;
And ay whatever Willy faid,

It was ftill hadden as a Law.

His Boots they were made of the Jag,
When he went to the Weapon-fhaw,
Upon the Green nane durft him brag,
The feind a ane amang them a'.
And was not Willy well worth Gowd?
He wan the Love of great and fma';.
For after he the Bride had kifs'd,

He kifs'd the Laffes hale-fale a'.
Sae merrily round the Ring they row'd,
When be the Hand he led them a',
And Smack on Smack on them bestow'd,
By Virtue of a Standing Law.

And was nae Willy a great Lown,

As fhyre a Lick as e'er was seen! When he danc'd with the Laffes round,

The Bridegroom fpeer'd where he had been.
Quoth Willy, I've been at the Ring,
With bobbing, faith, my Shanks are fair;
Gae ca' your Bride and Maidens in,
For Willy he dow do nae mair.
Then reft ye, Willy, I'll gae out,
And for a Wee fill up the Ring;
But, Shame light on his fouple Snout,
He wanted Willy's wanton Fling.
Then ftraight he to the Bride did fare,
Says, weel's me on your bonny Face,
With bobbing Willy's Shanks are fair,
And I am come to fill his Place.
Bridegroom, fhe fays, you'll fpoil the Dance,
And at the Ring you'll ay be lag,
Unless like Willy ye advance;

(O! Willy has a wanton Leg)
For wi't he learns us a' to fteer,
And foremost ay bears up the Ring ;
We will find nae fic dancing here,
If we want Willy's wanton Fling.

SONG CCCLXX. My Mafters, &c..

Y Masters and Friends, and good People draw near,

MY

And look to your Purses, for that I do say, And tho' little Money in them you do wear, It coft more to get than to lofe in a Day; You oft have been told,

The Young and the Old,

And bidden beware of the Cut-purfe fo bold; Then if you take heed not, free me from the Curse,

Who give you fair Warning against the Cut-purse. Youth, Youth, thou bad ft better been ftarved at

Nurfe,

Than to be bang'd for cutting a Purse.

It hath been upbraided to Men of my Trade,
That oft-times we are the Cause of this Crime,
Alack and for Pity, why should it be faid?
As if they regarded the Place or the Time:
Examples have been,

Of fome that were feen,

In Westminster-Hall, yea, the Pleaders between: Then why should the Judges be free from this Curfe,

More than my poor felf, for Cutting the Purse? Youth, Youth, &c.

At Worcester 'tis known well, and even i'th'Goal, A Knight of good Worth did there fhew his Face,

Against the fmall Sinner in Rage for to rail, And loft, ipfo Facto, his Purfe i'th Place; Nay even from the Seat

Of Judgment fo great,

A Judge there did lose a fair Purfe of Velvet,
O Lord for thy Mercy, how wicked or worfe
Are those that so venture their Neck for a Purfe?
Youth, Youth, &c.

At Plays and at Sermons, and at the Seffions,
"Tis daily their Practice fuch Booties to make
Yea, under the Gallows at Executions,
They stick not, but ftare about Purses to take:
Nay, once without Grace,

At a better Place,

At Court, and at Chriftmass before the King's
Face:

Alack then for Pity muft I bear the Curfe,
That only belongs to the cunning Cut-purfe?
Youth, Youth, &c.

But oh! thou vile Nation of Cut-purfes all,
Relent and repent, and amend, and be found,
And know that you ought not by honest Men's
Fall,

To advance your own Fortunes, to die above

Ground;