In se’enteen hunder’n forty-nine, The deil gat stuff to mak a swine, An’ coost it in a corner; But wilily he chang’d his plan, An’ shap’d it something like a man, An’ ca’d it Andrew Turner.
Pretty Peg
As I gaed up by yon gate-end, When day was waxin’ weary, Wha did I meet come down the street, But pretty Peg, my dearie! Her air sae sweet, an’ shape complete, Wi’ nae proportion wanting, The Queen of Love did never move Wi’ motion mair enchanting. Wi’ linked hands we took the sands, Adown yon winding river; Oh, that sweet hour and shady bower, Forget it shall I never!
Esteem For Chloris
As, Chloris, since it may not be, That thou of love wilt hear; If from the lover thou maun flee, Yet let the friend be dear. Altho’ I love my Chloris mair Than ever tongue could tell; My passion I will ne’er declare— I’ll say, I wish thee well. Tho’ a’ my daily care thou art, And a’ my nightly dream, I’ll hide the struggle in my heart, And say it is esteem.
Saw Ye My Dear, My Philly
Tune—“When she cam’ ben she bobbit.”