And when its deftin'd day is done,
With Peggy let me die.
Ye powers that fmile on virtuous love,
And in fuch pleasure share;
You who its faithful flames approve,
With pity view the fair.
Reftore my Peggy's wonted charms,
Thofe charms fo dear to me;
Oh! never rob them from those arm's:
I'm loft if Peggy die.
My Jo JANET.
Weet Sir, for your courtefie,
When ye come by the Bass then,
For the love ye bear to me,
Buy me a keeking-glass then. Keek into the draw-well,
And there ye'll fee yer bonny fell,
My jo Janet.
Keeking in the draw-well clear,
What if I fhou'd fa' in ?
Syne a' my kin will fay and fwear,
I drown'd myfell for fin.
Had the better be the brae,
Janet, Janet;
Had the better be the brae,
My jo Janet.
Good Sir, for your courtefie,
Coming through Aberdeen then,
For the love ye bear to me,
Buy me a pair of fhoon then.
Clout the auld, the new are dear,
Janet, Janet;
Ae pair may gain ye ha'f a year,
But what if dancing on the green,
And skipping like a mawking,
If they should see my clouted fhoon,
Of me they will be tauking.
Dance ay laigh, and late at e'en,
Janet, Janet,
Syne a' their fauts will no be feen,
My jo Janet.
Kind Sir, for your courtefie,
When ye gae to the cross then,
For the love ye bear to me,
Buy me a pacing horfe then.
Pace upo' your Spinning-wheel,
Janet, Janet;
Pace upo' your Spinning-wheel,
My jo Janet.
My fpinning-wheel is auld and stiff.
The rock o't winna ftand, Sir,
To keep the temper-pin in tiff,
Employs aft my hand, Sir.
Make the best o't that ye can,
Janet, Janet;
But like it never wale a man,
My jo Janet.
To the tune of, John Anderfon my jo.
Hat means this nicenefs now of late,
Since time that truth does prove;
Such diftance may confist with state,
But never will with love.
'Tis either cunning or disdain
That does fuch ways allow;
The firft is base, the last is vain :
May neither happen you.
For if it be to draw me on,
You over-act your part;
And if it be to have me gone,
You need not ha'f that art:
For if you chance a look to caft,
That feems to be a frown,
I'll give you all the love that's past,
The rest shall be my own.
Uld Rob Morris that wins in yon glen,
A He's the king of good fellows; and wale of auld
Has fourfcore of black sheep, and fourscore too;
Auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun loo.
Had your tongue, mither, and let that abee,
For his eild and my eild can never agree:
They'll never agree, and that will be seen ;
For he is fourfcore, and I'm but fifteen.
Had your tongue, doughter, and lay by your pride,
For he's be the bridegroom, and ye's be the bride:
He shall lie by your fide, and kiss ye too;
Auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun loo.
Auld Rob Morris I ken him fou weel,
it fticks out like ony peat-creel, He's out hinn'd, inknee'd, and ringle-ey'd too; Auld Rob Morris is the man I'll ne'er loo.
Though auld Rob Morris be an elderly man,
Yet his auld brafs it will buy a new pan;
Then, doughter, ye should na be fo ill to fhoo,
For Auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun loo.
DOUGHTER.
But auld Rob Morris I never will hae,
His back is fae ftiff, and his beard is grown gray:
I had titter die than live wi' him a year;
Sae mair of Rob Morris I never will hear.
To the tune of, Come kifs with me, come clap with
MY Focky blyth, for what thou'ft done,
There is nae help nor mending;
For thou haft jogg'd me out of tune,
For a' thy fair pretending.
My mither fees a change on me,
For my complexion dashes,
And this, alas! has been with thee
Sae late amang the rashes.
Then, Jocky, fince thy love's fae true,
Let mither fcoul, I'm eafy:
Sae langs I live I ne'er shall rue
For what I've done to please thee.
And there's my hand I's ne'er complain :
Oh! weel's me on the rashes;
Whene'er thou likes I'll do't again,
And a fig for a' their clashes.
To the tune of, Rothes's lament; or, Pinky-house.
AS Sylvia in a foreft lay,
Α
To vent her wo alone;
Her fwain Sylvander came that
And heard her dying moan:
Ah! is my love (the faid) to you
So worthlefs and fo vain ?
Why is your wonted fondnefs now
Converted to disdain ?
You vow'd the light shou'd darkness turn,
Ere you'd exchange your love;
In fhades now may creation mourn,
Since you unfaithful prove.
Was it for this I credit gave
To ev'ry oath you swore?
But ah! it seems they moft deceive,
Who moft our charms adore.
'Tis plain your drift was all deceit,
The practice of mankind :
Alas! I fee it, but too late,
My love had made me blind.
For you, delighted I could die :
But oh! with grief I'm fill'd,
To think that credulous conftant I
Shou'd by yourself be kill'd.
This faid all breathlefs, fick, and pale,
Her head upon her hand,
She found her vital fpirits fail,
And fenfes at a ftand.
Sylvander then began to melt:
But ere the word was given,
The heavy hand of death fhe felt,
And figh'd her foul to heaven.
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