This to be said after the SONG.
Sea then they gang’d to the Kirk to be wad; noow they den’t use to wad in Scotchland as they wad in England, for they gang to the Kirk, and they take the Donkin by the Rocket, and say, good morn Sir Donkin, says Sir Donkin, ah Jockey sen ater me, wit ta ha Jenny to thy wadded Wife? ay by her Lady quoth Jockey and thanka twa, we aw my Heart; ah Jenny sen ater me, wit ta ha Jockey to thy wadded Loon, to have and to hold for aver and aver, forsaking aw other Loons, lubberloons, black Lips, blue Nases, an aw Swiggbell’d caves? ah, an these twa be’nt as weel wadded as e’er I wadded twa in Scotchland, the Deel and St. Andrew part ye.
A Scotch Song made to the Irish Jigg, and
Sung to the King at Whitehall.
[[Listen]]
LAtely as thorough the fair Edinborough,
To view the fair Meadows as I was ganging;
Jockey and Moggy were walking and talking,
Of Love and Religion, thus closely Haranguing;
Never says Moggy, come near me false Jockey,
For thou art a Whig, and I mean to abhor thee;
Ize be no Bride, nor will lig by thy side,
For no sneaking Rebel shall lift a Leg o’er me.
Jockey. Fairest and Dearest,
And to my Heart nearest,
To live with thy Frowns I no longer am able;
I am so loving,
And thou art so moving,
Each Hair of thy Head ties me fast as a Cable:
Thou hast that in thee,
Ise sure to win me,
To Jew, Turk or Atheist, so much I adore thee;
Nothing I’d shun,
That is under the Sun,
So I have the pleasure to lift a Leg o’er thee.
Moggy. Plotters and Traytors,
And Associators,
In every degree thou shalt swear to oppose ’em;
Swimmers and Trimmers,
The Nations Redeemers,
And for thy Reward thou shalt sleep in my Bosom;
I had a Dad,
Was a Royal brave Lad,
And as true as the Sun to his Monarch before me;
Moggy he cry’d,
The same hour that he Dy’d,
Let no sneaking Rebel e’er lift a Leg o’er thee.
Jockey. Adieu then ye Crew then,
Of Protestant Blue Men,
No Faction his Moggy from Jockey shall sever;
Thou shalt at Court,
My Conversion Report,
I am not the first Whig by his Wife brought in favour;
Ise never deal,
For the dull Common Weal,
To fight for true Monarchy shall be my Glory;
Lull’d with thy Charms,
Then I die in your Arms,
When I have the Pleasure to lift a Leg o’er thee.