Balow, my darling, fleep a while,
And when thou wak'ft, then sweetly fmile;
But smile 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.
Balor, my boy, &c.
Farewell, farewell, thou falfeft youth,
That ever kifs'd 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,
I was too cred❜lous at the firft,
To yield thee all a maiden durft,
Thou fwore for ever true to prove,
Thy faith unchang'd, unchang'd thy 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 mens flattery I'd refrain,
For now unto my grief I find,
They all are perjur'd and unkind :*
Bewitching charms bred all my harms,
Witness my babe lies in
my arms.
Balow, my boy, &c.
I take my fate from bad to worse,
That I must needs be now a nurse,
And lull my young fon on my lap,
From mc, 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 deserved smart,
Who can blame none but her fond heart ;
For too foon trufling latest finds,
With faireft tongues are falfeft minds.
Balow, my boy, &c.
Balow, my boy, thy father's fled,
When he the thriftlefs fon has play'd,
Of vows and oaths, forgetful he
Preferr'd 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 or hell,
By fome proud foe has ftruck the blow,
And laid the dear deceiver low.
Balow, my boy, &c.
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, though not forget.
Balow, my boy, &c.
If linen lacks, for my love's fake,
Then quickly to him would I make
My fmock 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'lt weep for me:
Thy griefs are growing to a fum,
God grant thee patience when they come ;
Born to fuftain thy mother's fhame,
A hapless fate, a baftard's name.
Balony, my boy, lie fill and fleep,
It grieves me fore to hear thee weep.
She raife and loot me in.
HE night her filent fable wore,
And gloomy were the skies;
Of glitt'ring ftars appear'd no more
Than thofe in Nelly's eyes.
When at her father's yate I knock'd,
Where I had often been,
She, fhrouded only with her fmock,
Arofe and loot me in.
Faft lock'd within her clofe embrace,
She trembling ftood asham'd;
Her fwelling breaft, and glowing face,
And ev'ry touch inflam'd.
My eager paffion I obey'd,
Refolv'd the fort to win;
And her fond heart was foon betray'd
To yield and let me in.
Then, then, beyond expreffing,
Tranfporting was the joy;
I knew no greater bleffing,
So blefs'd a man was 1.
And fhe, all ravish'd with delight,
Bid me oft come again;
And kindly vow'd, that ev'ry night
She'd rife and let me in.
But ah! at laft the prov'd with bairn,
And fighing fat and dull,
And I that was as much concern'd,
Look'd e'en juft like a fool.
Her lovely eyes with tears ran o'er,
Repenting her rafh fin :
She figh d, and curs'd the fatal hour,
That e'er the loot me in.
But who cou'd cruelly deceive,
Or from fuch beauty part?
I lov'd her fo, I could not leave
The charmer of my heart;
But wedded, and conceal'd our crime ::
Thus all was well again,
And now the thanks the happy time
That e'er the loot me in.
If love's a feet passion.
F love's a fweet paffion, why does it torment ?
If a bitter, O tell me whence comes my complaint? Since I fuffer with pleasure, why fhould I complain, Or grieve at my fate, fince I know 'tis in vain? Yet fo pleafing the pain is, fo foft is the dart,
That at once it both wounds me, and tickles my heart.
I grafp her hands gently, look languishing down, And, by paffionate filence, I make my love known. But oh! how I'm blefs'd when fo kind fhe does prove, By fome willing mistake to discover her love, When in ftriving to hide, fhe reveals all her flame, And our eyes tell each other what neither dare name.
How pleafing is beauty? how sweet are the charms ?
How delightful embraces ? how peaceful her arms ?
Sure there is nothing fo eafy as learning to love;
'Tis taught us on earth, and by all things above:
And to beauty's bright ftandard all heroes muft yield,
For 'tis beauty that conquers, and wins the fair freld. -
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!
Okon, ohon! I wont to do!
Now wont to do's away frae me,
Frae filly auld John Ochiltree.
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 hirple o'er my tree,
My bonny moor-port, is a' I may do..
Walaways! John Ochiltree,
For mony a time I tell'd to thee,
Thou rade fae faft by fea 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 bonny thing,
And chear me up to hear thee fing;
And tell me o'er a' we hae done,
For thoughts maun now my life fuftain.
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