A GIPSY'S SONG.
Here awhile we'll cease from roaming—
Pitch the tents among the broom—
Turn the asses on the common,
And enjoy the afternoon.
Merry shall we be to-day:
What is life devoid of pleasure?
Care from us keep far away,
While Mirth pursues his sprightly measure.
Place all things in decent order,
Budgets, boxes, mugger-ware,
And here encamp'd, on England's border,
We'll remain till Whitsun Fair.
Ease the brutes of panniers' load—
Let them browse among the heather;
Light a fire, and dress some food,
And frankly we shall feast together.
And Allan,[34] thou shall screw thy drone,
And play up 'Maggie Lauder' sweetly,
Or 'Money Musk' or 'Dorrington,'
And we will frisk and foot it neatly.
Crowd[35] gain'd applause for many a tune—
Few peer'd him in the High or Lawlan';
But neither he nor Sandy Brown[36]
Could trill a note like Jemmy Allan.
E'en Blaw-loud Willy's[37] Border airs,
Nor gay nor daft could please the dancer;
But aye to Allan's lilts, at fairs,
The very feet themselves would answer.
Each lad shall take his fav'rite lass,
And dance with her till she be weary,
And warm her with the whisky glass,
And kiss and hug his nut-brown deary.