« ForrigeFortsett »
Y IN ye mcet a bonny lassie,
Gie 'ra kiss, and let her gae; But if ye meet a dirty hussy,
Fy gar rub her o'er with strae. Be sure ye dinna quit the grip
Of ilka joy when ye are young, Before auld age your vitals nip,
And lay you twafauld o'er a rung.
Sweet youth 's a blithe and heartsome time;
Then lads and lasses, while 'tis May, Gae pu'the gowan in its prime,
Before it wither and decay. Watch the saft minutes of delight,
When Jenny speaks beneath her breath, And kisses, laying a’ the wyte
On you if she keeps ony skaith.
Haith ye're ill-bred, she'll smiling say,
worry me, ye greedy rook. Syne frae' your arms she'll rin away,
And hide hersel in some dark nook. Her laugh will lead you to the place
Where lies the bappiness ye want, And plainly tell you to your face
Nineteen na says are half a grant.
Now to her heaving bosom cling,
And sweetly toollie for a kiss :
These bennisons, I'm very sure,
Are of the gods indulgent grant : Then, surly carles, whisht, forbear
To plague us with your whining cant,
What woman is like, who can say
When she's tender and kind,
She is like to my mind,
She's like to— dear!
She's as good very near
If she laugh, and she chat,
Play, joke, aud all that, And with similes and good humour she met me,
She is like a rich dish
Of ven'son or tish,
Distract and perplex you, and vex you,
Unsettled and changing,
Like a sand? like a rock?
Like a wheel? like a clock?
Her head's like the island folks tell on,
In truth she's to ine
Like a mill, like a pill,
Like an ass, like a glass,
Like a flow'r, like a show'r,
Like a thief, like-in brief,
Assist me, chaste Dian, the nymph to regain, More wild than the roebuck, and wing’d with
disdain; In pity o'ertake her, who wounds as she fies: 'Though Daphne's pursu'd, 'tis Myrtillo who dies!
AM a friar of orders grey,
And down the vallies I take my way:
What baron or 'squire,
Lives half so well as a holy friar?
song, And the vespers'
, bell is my bowl, ding dong,
My jib, how she smack'd thro' the breeze! She's a vessel as tight to my fancy,
As ever sail'd on the salt seas.
Our girls and our dear native shore,
"But sailors are born for all weathers,
Great gups, let it blow high, blow low,
And where the gale drives we inust go.
I verily thought she had sunk; For the wind so began for to alter,
She yau'd just as though she was drunk, The squall tore the main-sail to shivers;
Helm a-weather! the hoarse boatswain cries, Brace the foresail athwart! see, she quivers, As through the rough tempest she flies.
But sailors, &c. The storm came on thicker and faster;
As black just as pitch was the sky; When truly a doleful disaster
Befel three pour sailors and I, Ben Buntline, Sam Shroud, and Dick Handsail,
By a blast that came furious and hard, Just while we were furling the main-sail, Were every soul swept from the yard.
But sailors, &c.
As for I, at the risk of my neck,
Caught a rope, and so landed on deck.
And out of a fine jolly crew,
But sailors, &c.