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Sweet, O sweet's the flowing cann;
When the boatswain pipes the barge to man..
Is Jack's delight, his lovely Nan. The needle, faithful to the north, To show of constancy the worth,
A curious lesson teaches man;
Let seamanship do all it can:
My faith and truth to lovely Nan.
When in the bilboes I was penn'd,
And ev'ry creature from me ran :
None hail'd me, woman, child, or man:
I had all the world in lovely Nan.
I love my duty, love my friend,
To mourn their loss who hazard ran:
By manners love to show the man;
To sail thro’ life by honour's breeze:
First made me doat on lovely Nan.
WILD HOWLS THE WIND.
TUNE_" Banks of the Devon.”
Fierce beat the dark billows on Coila's smooth shore; While friendless I wander amid the commotion,
And muse on the spot I may never tread more. Ah no, my sad breast, never more must thou wander
Those scenes, to thy mem'ry tho' ever so dear, Never more wi' thy lassie, by Clyde's smooth meander,
No eye o'er thy fate shall drop pity's soft tear. More dread, and more ruthless the surge o' misfortune,
Beat 'gainst this sad breast in my youth's early dawn; The keen blasts o' sorrow the tender stem tore soon,
An' crush'd low in dust ere the floweret was blawn. This woe-laden bosom is now weakly beating,
And trembling those limbs as I slow pace the shore; At each quiv'ring throb I feel life quick retreating,
And Fatę, hov’ring nigh, says the struggle'is o'er. Hark, the wind stills, and lo where the high foaming
billow, Late scatter'd his locks 'mong the robes o' the sky, Serene play the sun rays o' bright beaming yellow,
And nature sweet smileth as order draws nigh. Ev'n so, thou lov'd maiden, when life's storms are over,
A calm such as this we'll enjoy on yon shore, But more sweet, and a happier clime we'll discover,
Where Fate, all relentless, can part us no more. *
* Written by a young Gentleman while standing by the sea shore at Saltcoats.
- HALLOW FAIR.
TUNE_" Fy let us a' to the bridal.” THERE's fouth o'braw Jockies and Jennies
Comes weel buskit into the fair, Wi ribbons on their cockernonies,
And fouth o’ fine flour in their hair, O Maggie she was sae weel busked,
That Willie was tied to his bride; The poney was ne'er better whisked Wi' a cudgel that hang frae his side.
But Maggie was wond'rous jealous,
To see Willie busked sae braw; And Sawney he sat in the ale-house,
And hard at the liquor did ca'. There was Geordie that weel lo'ed his lassie,
He took the pint stoup in his arms, And hugg'd it, and said, Troth they're saucy
That lo’es na a gude father's bairn. There was Wattie, the muirland laddie,
Was mounted upon a grey cowte, Wi' sword by his side, like a caddie,
To drive in the sheep and the nowte. His doublet sae weel it did fit him,
It scarcely came down to mid-thigh, Wi' hair pouther’d, hat, and a feather,
And housing at courpon and tee.
But Bruckie play'd boo to Bawsie,
And aff scour'd the cowte like the win'; Poor Wattie he fell on the causey,
And birs'd a' the banes in his skin. His pistols fell out o' the hulsters,
And were a' bedaubed wi' dirt: The folk they came round him in clusters, Some leugh, and cry'd, Lad, was ye hurt? The cowte wad let naebody steer him,
He was aye sae wanton and skeigh; The packmen's stands he o'erturn'd them,
And gart a' the fair stand abeigh. Wi' sneering behind and before him ;
For sic is the mettle o' brutes; Poor Wattie, and wae's me for him,
Was fain to gang hame in his boots. Now it was late in the ev'ning,
And bughting time was drawing near; The lasses had stenched their greening
Wi' fouth o' braw apples and beer. There was Lillie, and Tibbie, and Sibbie,
And Ceicy on the spindle could spin, Stood glowring at signs and glass winnocks,
But deil a lad bade them come in. Gude guide’s ! saw ye ever the like o't?
See yonder's a bonny black swan; It glowrs as it wad fain be at us;
What's yon that it hauds in its han??
They're a' but a rickle o' sticks;
And yonder's Mess John and Auld Nick. Quo' Maggie, Come buy us our fairing,
To Wattie, wha sleely could tell,
In troth now l’se gie you mysel.
That e'er he had rippled the lint? Sae proud was he o' his Maggie,
Though she did baith scailie and squint.
A DIRGE ON THE DEATH OF BURNS.
WHAT! is there ill news, ye're so sad,
Robin Gray, That thy blue bonnet's pulld o’er thy brow?
O! sad news! sad! sad!
Poor Robin is dead,
Well a well a day.
Is his pipe mute for aye, and for aye,
Ay, cold as a clod
Beneath the green sod,
Well a well a day,
Adieu then, the forest and hill,
Why the forest and hill,
And the vallies ring still,
Well a well a day,
The sad sound of echo I'll shun,
Can you then as you roam
From your forefathers' home,
Well a well a day,