Whilst bards, in strains that sweetly flow,
Extol each nymph so fair,
Be mine my Nanny's worth to shew,
Her captivating air.
What swain can gaze without delight
On beauty there so fine?
The Graces all their charms unite
In Nanny of the Tyne.
Far from the noise of giddy courts
The lovely charmer dwells;
Her cot the haunt of harmless sports,
In virtue she excels.
With modesty, good nature join'd,
To form the nymph divine;
And truth, with innocence combin'd,
In Nanny of the Tyne.
Flow on, smooth stream, in murmurs sweet
Glide gently past her cot,
'Tis peace and virtue's calm retreat—
Ye great ones, envied not.
And you, ye fair, whom folly leads
Through all her paths supine,
Tho' drest in pleasure's garb, exceeds
Not Nanny of the Tyne.
Can art to nature e'er compare,
Or win us to believe
But that the frippery of the fair
Was made but to deceive.
Strip from the belle the dress so gay,
Which fashion calls divine,
Will she such loveliness display
As Nanny of the Tyne.
THE BONNY GYETSIDERS.
Tune—"Bob Cranky."
Come, marrows, we've happen'd to meet now,
Sae wor thropples together we'll weet now;
Aw've myed a new sang,
And to sing ye't aw lang,
For it's about the Bonny Gyetsiders.
Of a' the fine Volunteer corpses,
Whether footmen, or ridin' on horses,
'Tween the Tweed and the Tees,
Deil hae them that sees
Sic a corpse as the Bonny Gyetsiders.
Whilk amang them can mairch, turn, an' wheel sae?
Whilk their guns can wise off half sae weel sae?
Nay, for myeking a crack,
Through England aw'll back
The corps of the Bonny Gyetsiders.