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.

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Now to her heaving bosom cling,

And sweetly toollie for a kiss :
Upon her finger woop a ring,
As tokcn of a future bliss.



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
There's no liviug with or without one-
Lae bites like a fly,
Now an ear, now an eye,
Buz, huz, always buzzing about one.

When she's tender and kind,

She is like to my mind,
(And Fanny was so, I remember) -

She's like to— dear!

She's as good very near
As a ripe melting peach in September.

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,
That cries from the table come eat me!
But she'll plague you, and vex you,

Distract and perplex you, and vex you,
False hearted and ranging,

Unsettled and changing,
What then do you think she is like?

Like a sand? like a rock?

Like a wheel? like a clock?
Aye, a clock that is always at strike.


Her head's like the island folks tell on,
Which nothing but monkies can dwell on;
Her heart 's like a leinon--so nice
She carves for each lover a slice;

In truth she's to ine
Like the wind, like the sea,
Whose raging will hearken to no man;

Like a mill, like a pill,
Like a flail, like a whale,

Like an ass, like a glass,
Whose image is constant to no man;

Like a flow'r, like a show'r,
Like a fly, like a pie,
Like a pea, like a flea,

Like a thief, like-in brief,
She's like nothing on earth but a woman!

COWsweet in the woodlands, with fleethound

and horn,
To waken shrill Echo, and taste the fresh morn!
But hard is the chase my fond heart must pursue,
For Daphne, fair Daphne, is lost to my view!

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:
I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,
Good store of ven’son does fill my scrip;
My long bead roll I merrily chaunt,
Where'er I walk no money I want;
And why I'm so plump, the reason I'll tell-
Who leads a good life is sure to live well.

What baron or 'squire,
Or knight of the shire,

Lives half so well as a holy friar?
After supper of heav'n I dream,
But that is fat pullen and clouted cream.
My self, by denial, I mortify—
With a dainty bit of a warden pie:
I'm cloth'd in sackcloth, for my sin:
With old sack wine I'm liu'd within:
A chirping cup is

song, And the vespers'

, bell is my bowl, ding dong,
What baron or 'squire,
Or knight of the shire,
Lives half so well as a holy friar?

my mattin


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.
Then adieu to the white cliffs of Britain,

Our girls and our dear native shore,
For if some hard rock we should split on,
We ne er should see them any more.


"But sailors are born for all weathers,

Great gups, let it blow high, blow low,
Our duty keeps us to our tethers,

And where the gale drives we inust go.
When we enter'd the gut of Gibraltar,

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.
Poor Ben, Sam, and Dick, cry'd peccavi;

As for I, at the risk of my neck,
-While they sunk down in peace to old Davy,

Caught a rope, and so landed on deck.
Well, what would you have, we were stranded,

And out of a fine jolly crew,
Of three hundred that sail'd never landed
But I, and I think, twenty-two,

But sailors, &c.


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