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That's lately yielded up her heart
A conquest to Love's pow'rful dart,
And now would fain attempt to fing
The praises of my Highland King.

Jamie, the pride of all the green,
Is just my age, e'en gay

fifteen;
When firit I saw him, 'twas the day
That uhers in the sprightly May,
When first I felt Love's pow'rful fting,
And figh'd for my dear Highland King.

With him, for beauty, shape, and air,
No other shepherd can compare;
Good-nature, honesty, and truth,
Adorn the dear, the matchless youth,
And graces, more than I can sing,
Bedeck my charming Highland King.

Would once the dearest boy but say,
'Tis you I love; come, come away,
Unto the kirk, my love, let's hie ;
Ye gods! in rapture I'd comply ;
And I should then have cause to fing
The praises of my Highland King.

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For ever subjected; for ever confin'd.
Our parents controul us until we are wives,
And our husbands enslave us the rest of our lives.

If only we love, yet we dare not reveal, But secretly languish, compel'd to conceal : Deny'd ev'ry pleasure of life to enjoy, We're Tham'd if we're kind, and we're blam'd if we're

coy.

S O N G

LXVII.

MAKE HAY WHILE THE SUN SHINES.

IS a maxim I hold, while I live to pursue,

Not a thing to defer which to-day I can do: This piece of good counsel attend to, I pray, For while the sun shines is the time to make hay.

'I

Attend the dear nymph to an arbour or grove,
To her ear gently pour the sweet poison of love:
With kisses and presses your rapture convey,
For while the sun shines is the time to make hay.

If Chloe is kind, and gives ear to your 'plaint,
Declare

your whole sentiments, free from restraint, Enforce your petition, and make no delay, For while the sun shines is the time to make hay.

But, should you the present occafion let pass, The world may, with justice, proclaim you an ass : Then briskly attack her-if longer you stay, The fun may not shine, and you cannot make hay.

S O N G

LXVIII.

ROSL IN CAST L E.

WAS in that season of the

year,
all things
That Colin with the morning ray,
Arose, and sung his rural lay ;
Of Nanny's charms the shepherd fung,
The hills and dales with Nanny rung,
While Roslin caftle heard the swain,
And echo'd back the cheerful strain.

Awake, fweet mufe, the breathing spring, With rapture warms, awake and sing ;

Awake, and join the vocal throng,
And hail the morning with a song:
To Nanny raise the chearful lay,
O bid her hafte and come away ;
In sweetest smiles herself adorn,
And add new graces to the morn.

O hark, my love, on ev'ry spray
Each feather'd warbler tunes his lay ;
'Tis beauty fires the ravish'd throng,
And love inspires the melting fong :
Then let my ravish'd notes arise,
For beauty darts from Nanny's eyes,
And love my rising bosom warms,
And fills my soul with sweet alarms.

O come, my love, thy Colin's lay,
With rapture calls, O come away;
Come, while the muse this wreath shall twine
Around that modeft brow of thine.
O hither haste, and with thee bring
That beauty, blooming like the spring,
Those graces that divinely shine,
And charm this ravish'd heart of mine.

S O N G

LXIX.

Same Tune.

ROM Roslin caftle's echoing walls

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My Colin bids me come away,
And love demands I should obey.
His melting strain and tuneful. lay
So much the charms of love display,
I yield-nor longer can refrain
To own my love, and bless my

fwain,

No longer can my heart conceal The painful pleasing flame I feel,

My soul retorts the am'rous strain,
And echoes back in love again.
Where lurks my songster from what grove
Does Colin

pour

his notes of love? O bring me to the happy bower, Where mutual love may bliss secure.

Ye vocal hills that catch the song,
Repeating, as it flies along,
To Colin's ear my

strain

convey,
And say, I hafte to come away:
Ye zephyrs soft that fan the gale,
Waft to my love the foothing tale ;
In whispers all my foul express,
And tell, I haste his arms to bless.

SONG

LXX.

BANNOCKS OF BARLEY MEAL.

MY

Y name is Argyle: you may think it strange

To live at the court, and never to change,
All falsehood and flattery I do disdain,
In

my secret thoughts no deceit shall remain :
In fiege or in battle I ne'er was disgrac'd;
I always my king and my country have fac'd;
I'll do any thing for my country's weal,
I'd live upo' bannocks o' barley-meal.

Adieu to the courtiers of London town, For to my ain country I will

gang

down;
At the fight of Kirkcaldy ance again,
I'll cock up my bonnet and march amain.
O the muckle de’il tak' a' your noise and strife,
I'm fully resolv’d for a country life,
Where a' the braw lasses, wha ken me weel,
Will feed me wi' bannocks o' barley-meal.

I'll quickly lay down my sword and my gun, And I'll put my plaid and my

bonnet on,

Wi' my plaiding stockings, and leather-heel'd soon,
They'll mak’ me appear a fine sprightly loon.
And when I am dress’d thus frae tap to tae,
Hame to my Maggy I think for to gae,
Wi' my claymore hinging down to my heel,
To whang at the bannocks o' barley-meal.

I'll buy a fine present to bring to my dear,
A pair of fine garters for Maggy to wear,
And some pretty things else, I do declare,
When she gangs wi' me to Paisley fair.
And whan we-are married, we'll keep a cow,
My Maggy fall milk her, and I will plow :
We'll live a’ the winter on beef and lang kail,
And whang at the bannocks o' barley-meal.

If my Maggy shou'd chance to bring me a fon,
He's fight for his king, as his daddy has done ;
I'll send him to Flanders fome breeding to learn,
Syne hame into Scotland, and keep a farm.
And thus we'll live and industrious be,
And wha’ll be fae great as my Maggy and me?
We'll foon grow as fat as a Norway seal,
Wi' feeding on bannocks o' barley-meal.

Adieu to you

citizens

every ane, Wha jolt in your coaches to Drury-lane ; You bites of Bear-garden, who fight for gains, And you fops wha have got more wigs than brains : You cullies and bullies, I'll bid you adieu, For whoring and swearing I'll leave it to you ; Your woodcock and pheasant, your duck and your teal, I'll leave them for bannocks o’ barley-meal.

I'll leave off kiffing á citizen's wife,
I'm fully resolv'd for a country life;
Kissing and toying, I'll spend the lang day,
Wi' bonny young lasses on cocks of hay;
Where each clever lad gives his bonny lass
A kiss and

tumble
upon the

green grass :
I'll awa' to the Highlands as falt’s I can reel,
And whang at the bannocks o' barley-meal

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