I met our wealthy laird yeftreen,
Wi' gou'd in hand he tempted me,
He prais'd my brow, my rolling een,

And made a brag of what he'd gie:
What though my Jocky's far awa',

Toft up and down the awfome main,
I'll keep my heart another day,
Since Jocky may return again.

Nae mair, falfe JAMIE, fing nae mair,
And fairly caft your pipe away;
My Jocky wad be troubled fair,
To fee his friend his love betray:
For a' your fongs and verse are vain,
While Jocky's notes do faithful flow,
My heart to him shall true remain,
I'll keep it for my constant jo.

Blaw faft, ye gales, round Jocky's head,
And gar your waves be calm and still ;
His hameward fail with breezes speed,
And dinna a' my pleasure fpill;

What though my Jocky's far away,

Yet he will braw in filler shine;

I'll keep my heart anither day,
Since Jocky may again be mine.

Deil tak the wars.

EIL tak the wars that hurried BILLY from me

DE

Who to love me just had fworn ;

They made him captain sure to undo me :

Woe's me, he'll ne'er return.

A thousand loons abroad will fight him,
He from thousands ne'er will run;
Day and night I did invite him,

To stay at home from fword and gun.

I us'd alluring graces,

With muckle kind embraces,

Now fighing, then crying, tears dropping fall; And had he my foft arms,

Preferr'd to war's alarms,

By love grown mad, without the man of God,
I fear in my fit I had granted all.

I wash'd and patch'd to make me look provoking;
Snares that they told me would catch the men,
And on my head a huge commode fat poking,
Which made me fhew as tall again;

For a new gown too I paid muckle money,
Which with golden flowers did shine;
My love weil might think me gay and bonny,
No Scots lass was e'er fo fine.

My petticoat I spotted,

Fringe too with thread I knotted,

Lace shoes, and filk hose, garter full over knee;
But oh! the fatal thought,

TO BILLY these are nought;

Who rode to towns, and rifled with dragoons, When he, filly loon, might have plunder'd me.

ELORE lo!

N a garden fo green in a May morning,

IN

Heard I my lady pleen of paramours,

Said fhe, my love, so sweet, come you not yet, not yet,

Hight you not me to meet amongst the flowers,
ELORE! ELORE! ELORE! ELORE!

I love my lufty love, ELORE lo!

The light up-fpringeth, the dew down dingeth,
The sweet lark fingeth her hours of prime;
Phoebus up spenteth, joy to reft wenteth,
So loft is mine intents, and gone's the time,
ELORE! ELORE! ELORE! ELORE!

I love my lufty love, ELORE lo!

Danger my dead is, falfe fortune my feed is,
And langour my lead is, but hope I despair,
Disdain my desire is, fo ftrangeness my fear is,
Deceit out of all ware; adieu, I fare.
ELORE! ELORE! ELORE! ELORE!

I love my lufty love, ELORE lo!

Then to my Lady blyth, did I my presence kyth:
Saying, my bird, be glad; am I not yours?

So in my arms too, did I the lufty jo,

And kissed her times mo, than night hath hours,
ELORE ELORE! ELORE! ELORE!

I love my lufty love ELORE lo!

Live in hope, lady fair, and repel all despair,
Truft not that your true love shall you betray,

When deceit and langour, is banisht from your bower,

I'll be your paramour, and shall you please,
ELORE! ELORE! ELORE! ELORE!

I love my lufty love ELORE lo!

Favour and duty, unto your bright beauty,
Confirmed hath lawtie obliged to truth;
So that your foverance, heartilie but variance,
Mark in your memorance, mercy and ruth,
ELORE! ELORE! ELORE ! ELORE!

I love my lufty love ELORE lo!

Yet for your courtesie, banish all jealousie,
Love for love luftily, do me restore ;

Then with us lovers young, true love shall rest and reign, Solace shall sweetly sing for evermore,

ELORE! ELORE! ELORE! ELORE!

I love my lufty love, ELORE lo!

W

Wo worth the time, &c.

O worth the time and eke the place,
That she was to me known;

For fince I did behold her face,

My heart was never mine own, mine own jo, mine

own,

My heart was never mine own.

Sometimes I lived at libertie,

But now I do not fo;

She hath my heart so faithfullie,

That I can love no mo, no mo jo, no mo,

That I can love no mo.

To be refus'd of love, alas!

All earthly things adieu,

My mistress she is merciless,

And will not on me rue, me rue jo, me rue,

And will not on me rue.

Now am I left all comfortless,

And no remeid can crave,

My pains they are remeadilefs,

And all the wyte you have, you have jo, you have, And all the wyte you have.

The flower of Yarrow.

N ancient times, as fongs rehearse,

She reign'd alone without a marrow,
MARY SCOT the flower of Yarrow.

each verfe,

Our fathers with fuch beauty fir'd
This matchlefs fair in crowds admir'd,
Though matchless then, yet here's her marrow,
MARY SCOT's the flower of Yarrow.

Whose beauty unadorn'd by art,
With virtue join'd attracts each heart;
Her negligence itself would charm you,
She scarcely knows her power to warm you.

For ever cease Italian noise;

Let every string and every voice,
Sing MARY SCOT without a marrow,
MARY SCOT the flower of Yarrow.