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 w' him a year;

Sae mair of Rob Morris I never will hear.

SONG..

To the Tune, Come kifs with me, come clap with

Μ

me, &c.

PEGGY.

MY There is nae help nor mending;

Y Jocky blyth, for what thou'ft done,

For thou haft jog'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 fo true,
Let mither fcoul,. I'm easy:

Sae langs I live I ne'er fhall rue

For what I've done to please thee.

And there's my hand I's ne'er complain ::

Oh well's me on the rafhes;

Whene'er thou likes I'll do't again,

And a fig for a' their clafhes,
D 6

Z.

SONG.

SONG.

To the Tune of, Rothes's Lament; or, Pinky-house.

As

S Sylvia in a forest lay

To vent her woe alone;

Her twain Sylvander came that way,
And heard her dying moan,

Ah! is my love (the faid) to you

So worthlefs and fo vain :
Why is your wonted fondness now
Converted to disdain ?

You vow'd the light fhou'd darkness turn,
E'er 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 feems they moft deceive,
Who most 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 your self be kill'd.

This faidall 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 e'er the word was given,
The heavy hand of death fhe felt,
And figh'd her foul to heaven.

M:

The

The young Laird and Edinburgh KATY,

N°

OW wat ye wha I meet yeftreen,
Coming down the street, my jo?
My miftrifs in her tartan fcreen,
Fow bonny, braw and fweet, my jo.
My dear, quoth I, thanks to the night,
That never wifht a lover ill,

Since ye're out of your mither's fight,
Let's take a wauk up to the hill.

O Katy, wiltu gang wi' me,

And leave the dinfome town a while;
The bloffom's fprouting frae the tree,
And a' the fummer's gawn to fmile :
The mavis, nightingale, and lark,
The bleeting lambs and whistling hynd,
In ilka dale, green, fhaw and park,
Will nourish health, and glad ye'r mind.

Soon as the clear goodman of day
Bends his morning draught of dew,
We'll gae to fome burn-fide and play,
And gather flowers to busk ye'r brow.
We'll pou the daifies on the green,
The lucken gowans frae the bog:
Between hands now and then we'll lean,
And sport upo' the velvet fog.

There's up into a pleasant glen, A wee piece frae my father's tower,

A canny, faft and flow'ry den,

Which circling birks have form'd a bower:
When e'er the fun grows high and warm,
We'll to the cauler fhade remove,
There will I lock thee in mine arm,
And love and kiss, and kifs and love.

KATY'S

KATY's Answer.

Y mither's ay glowran o'er me,

MY Tho' fhe did the fame before me;

I canna get leave

To look to my loove,

Or elfe fhe'll be like to devour me.

Right fain wad I take ye'r offer, Sweet Sir, but I'll tine my tocher; Then Sandy, ye'll fret,

And wyte ye'r poor Kate,

Whene'er ye keek in your toom coffer.

For tho' my father has plenty, Of filler and plenishing dainty, Yet he's unco fweer,

To twin wi' his gear;

And fae we had need to be tenty.

Tutor my parents wi' caution, Be wylie in ilka motion;

Brag well o' ye'r land,

And there's my leal hand,

Win them, I'll be at your devotion.

H

MARY SCOTT.

APPY's the love which meets return,
When in foft flames fouls equal burn;

But words are wanting to difcover
The torments of a hopeless lover..
Ye regifters of heav'n, relate,
If looking o'er the rolls of fate,

Did you there fee me mark'd to marrow
Mary Scot the flower of Yarrow?

Ah no! her form's too heavenly fair,
Her love the Gods above must share ;
While mortals with defpair explore her,
And at a distance due adore her.
O lovely maid! my doubts beguile,
Revive and bless me with a smile:
Alas! if not, you'll foon debar a
Sighing fwain the banks of Yarrow.

Be hufh, ye fears, I'll not despair,
My Mary's tender as fhe's fair;
Then I'll go tell her all mine anguish,
She is too good to let me languish:
With fuccefs crown'd, I'll not envy
The folks who dwell above the sky;
When Mary Scot's become my marrow,
We'll make a paradife on Yarrow.

For now fhe's miftrifs of my heart,
And wordy of my hand,

And well I wat we shanna part

For filler or for land.

Let rakes delyte to fwear and drink,

And beaus admire fine lace,

But my chief pleafure is to blink
On Betty's bonny face.

I will awa', &c.

There