Few words, bonny lad,
Will eithly perfuade,

Tho' blushing, I daftly fay, no,

Gae on with your ftrain,
And doubt not to gain,

For I hate to lead apes below.

Unty'd to a man,

Do whate'er we can,

We never can thrive or dow:

Then I will do well,
Do better what will,

And let them lead apes below.

Our time is precious,
And gods are gracious

That beauties upon us bestow;

"Tis not to be thought
We got them for nought,

for a fhow.

Or to be fet

up

'Tis carried by votes,

Come kilt up your coats,

And let us to Edinburgh go,

Where the that's bonny
May catch a Johny,

And never lead apes below.

WILLIAM and MARGARET.

"T

An old ballad.

Was at the fearful midnight-hour,
When all were fast asleep,

In glided Margaret's grimly ghoft,
And ftood at William's feet.

Her face was pale like April morn ;⠀
Clad in a wintry cloud;

And clay-cold was her lily-hand
That held her fable fhroud.

So fhall the fairest face appear,

When youth and years are flown ;' Such is the robe that kings must wear, When death has reft their crown.

Her bloom was like the springing flow'r,›
That fips the filver dew;

The role was budded in her cheek;
Juft op'ning to the view.

But love had, like the canker-worm,

Confum'd her early prime:

The rofe grew pale, and left her cheek;

She dy'd before her tine.

M 3

Awake!

Awake!

fhe cry'd, thy true-love calls,
Come from her midnight-grave;
Now let thy pity hear the maid
Thy love refus'd to fave.

This is the dumb and dreary hour,
When injur'd ghofts complain,
And aid the fecret fears of night,
To fright the faithless man.

Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,
Thy pledge and broken oath,

And give me back my maiden-vow,
And give me back

my troth..

How could you fay, my face was fair,
And yet that face forfake?

How could you win that virgin-heart,
Yet leave that heart to break?

Why did you promife love to me,
And not that promite keep?

Why faid you, that my eyes were bright,
Yet left thefe eyes to weep?

How could you fwear, my lip was sweet,
And made the scarlet pale?
And why did I, young witless maid,
Believe the fatt'ring tale?

That face, alas! no more is fair;
Thefe lips no longer red;

Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death,
And ev'ry charm is filed.

The hungry worm my fifter is;
This winding-fheet I wear :

And cold and weary lafts our night,

Till that laft morn appear.

But

A long and late adieu !

Come fee, falfe man, how low fhe lies,
That dy'd for love of you.

The lark fung out, the morning fmil'd,.
And rais'd her glift'ring head;
Pale William quak'd in ev'ry limb;
Then, raving, left his bed.

He hy'd him to the fatal place
Where Margaret's body lay,

And stretch'd him o'er the green grass turf
That wrapt her breathlefs clay.

And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name,
And thrice he wept full fore:
Then laid his cheek on her cold
And word spoke never more.

grave,

The COMPLAINT.

HE fun was funk beneath the hill,

TH

D. M..

The western cloud was lin'd with gold:.

Clear was the fky, the wind was ftill,

The flocks were penn'd within the fold; When in the filence of the

grove,

Poor Damon thus defpair'd of love.

Who feeks to pluck the fragrant rofe,
From the hard rock or oozy beech;
Who from each weed that barren grows,
Expects the grape or downy peach;
With equal faith may hope to find
The truth of love in womankind.

No flocks have I, or fleecy care,
No fields that wave with golden grain,

No paftures green, or gardens fair,
A woman's venal heart to gain,

Then

Then all in vain my fighs muft prove,
Whose whole eftate, alas! is love..

How wretched is the faithful youth,
Since womens hearts are bought and fold!
They afk no vows of facred truth;

When'er they figh, they figh to gold.
Gold can the frowns of fcorn remove;
Thus I am fcorn'd, who have but love.

To buy the gems of India's coaft,

What wealth, what riches would fuffice ?
Yet India's fhore fhould never boast
The luftre of thy rival eyes ;

For there the world too cheap must prove ;
Can I then buy? who have but love.

Then, Mary, fince nor gems nor ore
Can with thy brighter felf compare,
Be juft, as fair, and value more,

Than gems or ore, a heart fincere :
Let treasure meaner beauties prove;
Who pays thy worth, muft pay in love.

I

SONG.

To the tune of, Montrofe's lines.

Tofs and tumble thro' the night,
And wifh th' approaching day,

Thinking when darknefs yields to light,

I'll banifh care away:

But when the glorious fun doth rife,
And chear all nature round,

All thoughts of pleafure in me dies;
My cares do fill abound..

4

X.

My