When ever our Baty does bark,
Then fast to the door I rin,
To fee gin ony young spark
Will light and venture but in:
But never a ane will come in,
Though mony a ane gaes by,
Syne far ben the houfe I rin;
And a weary wight am I.
When I was at my firft pray'rs,,
I pray'd but anes i' the year,
I wish'd for a handfome young lad,
And a lad with muckle gear.
When I was at my neift pray'rs,
I pray'd but now and than,
I fath'd na my head about gear,
If I get a handfome young man.
Now when I'm at my laft pray'rs,
I pray on baith night and day,
And O! if a beggar wad come,
With that fame beggar. I'd gae.
And O! and what'll come o' me!!
And O! and what'll I do?
That fic a braw laffie as F
Should die for a wooer I trow.
Tune, Dainty Davy.
HILE fops in faft Italian verse,
Ilk fair ane's een and breast rehearse,,
While fangs abound and sense is scarce,
Thefe lines I have indited:
But neither darts nor arrows here,
Venus nor Cupid shall appear,
And yet with these fine founds I fwear,
The maidens are delighted.
I was ay telling you,
Lucky Nanfy, lucky Nanfy,
Auld fprings wad ding the new,
But ye wad never trow me.
Nor fnaw with crimson will I mir,
To fpread upon my laffie's cheeks;
And fyne th' unmeaning name prefix,
Miranda, Chloe, or Phillis.
I'll fetch nae fimile frae Jove,
My height of extafy to prove,
fighing-thus-prefent my love
With rofes eek and lilies.
I was ay telling you, &c. But ftay, I had amaist forgot My miftrefs and my fang to boot, And that's an unco' faut I wat; But Nanfy 'tis nae matter. Ye fee I clink my verse wi' rhyme, And ken ye, that atones the crime; Forby, how fweet my numbers chyme, And flide away like water.
I was ay telling you, &c.
Now ken, my reverend fonfy fair,
Thy runkled cheeks and lyart hair,
Thy half fhut een and hodling air,
Are a' my paffion's fewel.
Nae fkyring gowk, my dear, can fee,
Or love, or grace, or heaven in thee;
Yet thou haft charms anew for me
Then fmile, and be na cruel.
Leeze me on thy fnawy pow,
Lucky Nanfy, lucky Nanfy,
Drieft wood will eitheft low,
And Nanfy fae will ye now.
Troth I have fung the fang to you,
Which ne'er anither bard wad do;
Hear then my charitable Vow,
Dear venerable Nanfy.
But if the warld my paffion wrang,
And fay ye only live in fang,
Ken I despise a fland'ring tongue,
And fing to please my fanfy.
Leeze me on thy, &c.
The Tune after an Italian Manner.
Compofed by Signior LORENZO BOCCHI
LATE Johnny faintly teld fair Jean his mind;
Jeany took pleasure to deny him lang;
He thought her scorn came frae her heart unkind,
Which gart him in despair tune up this fang.
O bonny laffie, fince 'tis fae,
That I'm defpis'd by thee,
I hate to live, but O I'm wae,
And unko fweer to die.
Dear Jeany, think what dowy hours
I thole by your disdain;
Ah! fhould a breast fae faft as yours,
Contain a heart of stane?
Thefe tender notes did a' her pity move,
With melting heart the liften'd to the boy;
O'ercome the fmil'd, and promis'd him her love a
He in return thus fang his rifing joy.
Hence frae my breast, contentious care,
Ye've tint the power to pine;
My Jeany's good, my Jeany's fair,
And a' her fweets are mine.
fpread thine arms, and gi'e me fowth
Of dear enchanting blifs,
A thousand joys around thy mouth
Gi'e heaven with ilka kife.
Tune, Saw ye my PEGGY.
OME let's ha'e mair wine in,
Bacchus hates repining,
Venus loves nae dwining,
Let's be blyth and free,
Away with dull, Here t'ye, Sir;
Ye're miftrefs, Robie, gi'es her,
We'll drink her health wi' pleafure,
Wha's belov'd by thee.
Then let Peggy warm ye,
That's a lafs can charm ye,
And to joys alarm ye,
Sweet is the to me.
Some angel ye wad ca' her,
And never wifh ane brawer,
If ye bare-headed faw her
Kiltet to the knee.
PEGGY a dainty lafs is,
Come let's join our glaffes,
And refresh our haufes
With a health to thee.
Let coofs their cash be clinking,
Be ftatesmen tint in thinking,
While we with love and drinking,
Give our cares the lie.
HE meal was dear short fyne,
We buckl'd us a' the gither;
And Magie was in her prime,
When Willie made courtship till her:
Twa piftals charg'd beguefs,
To gie the courting fhot;
And fyne came ben the lafs,
Wi' fwats drawn frae the butt.
He firft fpeer'd at the guidman,
And fyne at Giles the mither,
An ye wad gi's a bit land,
We'd buckle us e'en the gither.
My doughter ye shall hae,
I'll gi' you her by the hand;
But I'll part wi' my wife, by my fae,
Or I part wi' my land.
Your Tocher it fall be good,
There's nane fall hae its maik,
The lafs bound in her fnood,
And Crummie who kens her stake:
With an auld bedden o' claiths,
Was left me by my mither,
They're jet black o'er wi' flaes
Ye may cudle in them the gither.
Ye fpeak right well, guidman,
But ye maun mend your hand,
And think o' modefty,
Gin ye'll not quat your land:
We are but young, ye ken,
And now we're gaw'n the gither,
A houfe is butt and benn,
And Grummie will want her fother.
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