She falls in love with a fellow
Who swells with a foreign air;
He marries her for her money,
She marries him for his hair.
One of the very best matches-
Both are well-mated in life.
She's got a fool for a husband,
He's got a fool for a wife.
Married life
To man and wife,
Is much, I think, like bread and butter;
If Love concurs,
While Wealth demurs,
'Tis dry, like bread without the butter. If Wealth alone
Sits on the throne,
'Tis salty, too, just like the butter. Of Love a slice
With Wealth-how nice!
'Tis Hunger's sweets-like bread and butter.
A knight and a lady once met in a grove,
While each was in quest of a fugitive love;
A river ran mournfully murmuring by,
And they wept in its waters for sympathy.
"Oh, never was knight such a sorrow that bore!"
"Oh, never was maid so deserted before!"
"From life and its woes let us instantly fly,
And jump in together for company."
They seached for an eddy that suited the deed, But here was a bramble, and there was a weed; "How tiresome it is!" said the fair, with a sigh, So they sat down to rest them in company.
They gazed at each other, the maid and the knight,
How fair was her form, and how goodly his height!
"One mournful embrace," sobbed the youth, 66 ere we die!"
So kissing and crying kept company.
"Oh, had I but loved such an angel as you!" "Oh, had but my swain been a quarter as true!" "To miss such perfection how blinded was I!" Sure now they were excellent company.
At length spoke the lass, 'twixt a smile and a tear,
"The weather is cold for a watery bier;
When summer returns we may easily die,
Till then let us sorrow in company."
My easy friends, since ye think fit
This night to lucubrate on wit,
And since ye judge that I compose
My thoughts in rhyme better than prose,
I'll give my judgment in a song,
And here it comes, be't right or wrong.
But first of a' I'd tell a tale
That with my case runs parallel.
There was a stammering lad in Fife
Who couldna, for his very life,
Speak without stammering very lang,
Yet never stammered when he sang.
His father's kiln he once saw burning,
Which made the lad run breathless mourning;
Homeward, with clever strides, he lap,
To tell his daddy his mishap.
At distance, ere he reached the door,
He stood and raised a hideous roar :
His father, when he heard his voice,
Stepped out and said, "What's a' this noise?"
The lad he gaped and glowered about,
But no ae word could he lug out;
His dad cried, kenning his defect,
"Sing, sing, or I shall break your neck!"
Then soon he gratified his sire,
And sang aloud, "Your kiln's afire!"
Now ye'll allow there's wit in that,
To tell a tale so very pat.
Bright wit appears in mony a shape,
Which some invent and others ape:
Some show their wit in wearing claithes,
And some in coining of new oaths;
There's crambo wit in making rhyme,
And dancing wit in beating time;
There's method wit in story-telling,
In writing grammar, and right spelling;
Wit shines in knowledge of politics,
And, now! what wits among the critics!
ALLAN RAMSAY.
A Fox in life's extreme decay,
Weak, sick, and faint, expiring lay;
All appetite had left his maw,
And age disarmed his mumbling jaw.
His numerous race around him stand,
To learn their dying sire's command;
He raised his head with whining moan,
And thus was heard his feeble tone:
"Ah, sons, from evil ways depart;
My crimes lie heavy on my heart.
See, see the murdered geese appear!
Why are those bleeding turkeys there?
Why all around this cackling train,
Who haunt my ears for chickens slain?"
The hungry foxes round them stared,
And for the promised feast prepared:
"Where, sir, is all this dainty cheer?
Nor turkey, goose, nor hen is here.
These are the phantoms of your brain,
And your sons lick their lips in vain."
"Oh, gluttons!" says the drooping sire,
"Restrain inordinate desire;
Your lickerish taste you shall deplore,
When peace of conscience is no more.
Does not the hound betray our pace,
And gins and guns destroy our race?
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