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My master and the neighbours all

game of me and Sally, And, but for her, I'd better be

A slave and row a galley ;
But when my seven long years are out

O then I 'll marry Sally, -
O then we 'll wed, and then we 'll bed,
But not in our alley !

H. Carey




O fetch to me a pint o' wine,

And fill it in a silver tassie; That I may drink before I go

A service to my bonnie lassie ; The boat rocks at the pier of Leith,

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry, The ship rides by the Berwick-law,

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly,

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; The shouts o war are heard afar,

The battle closes thick and bloody; But it's not the roar o sea or shore

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; Nor shouts o' war that 's heard afarIt's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.

R. Burns


F doughty deeds my lady please

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And strong his arm, and fast his seat

That bears frae me the meed. I'll wear thy colours in my cap,

Thy picture at my heart;
And he that bends not to thine eye
Shall rue it to his smart !
Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;

O tell me how to woo thee !
For thy dear sake, nae care I 'll take

Tho' ne'er another trow me.

If gay attire delight thine eye

I 'll dight me in array ;
I'll tend thy chamber door all night,

And squire thee all the day.
If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,

These sounds I 'll strive to catch;
Thy voice I 'll steal to woo thysell,

That voice that nane can match.

But if fond love thy heart can gain,

I never broke a vow;
Nae maiden lays her skaith to me,

I never loved but you.
For you alone I ride the ring,

For you I wear the blue ;
For you alone I strive to sing,
O tell me how to woo !
Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;

O tell me how to woo thee !

For thy dear sake, nae care I 'll take,
Tho' ne'er another trow me.

Graham of Gartmore



WEET stream, that winds through yonder glade,


Silent and chaste she steals along,
Far from the world's gay busy throng:
With gentle yet prevailing force,
Intent upon her destined course;
Graceful and useful all she does,
Blessing and blest where'er she goes;
Pure-bosom’d as that watery glass,
And Heaven reflected in her face.

W. Cowper



LEEP on, and dream of Heaven awhile —

Thy rosy lips still wear a smile
And move, and breathe delicious sighs !

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks
And mantle o'er her neck of snow;
Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
What most I wish — and fear to know !

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps !
Her fair hands folded on her breast :

- And now, how like a saint she sleeps ! A seraph in the realms of rest !

Sleep on secure ! Above controul
Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee:
And may the secret of thy soul
Remain within its sanctuary !

S. Rogers


OR ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove

F ,

And when we meet a mutual heart
Come in between, and bid us part ?

Bid us sigh on from day to day,
And wish and wish the soul away ;
Till youth and genial years are flown,
And all the life of life is gone?

But busy, busy still art thou,
To bind the loveless joyless vow,
The heart from pleasure to delude,
To join the gentle to the rude.

For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,
And I absolve thy future care ;
All other blessings I resign,
Make but the dear Amanda mine.

7. Thomson



'HE merchant, to secure his treasure,

Conveys it in a borrow'd name; Euphelia serves to grace my measure, But Cloe is my real flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay-
When Cloe noted her desire
That I should sing, that I should play.

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,

But with my numbers mix my sighs ;
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.

Fair Cloe blush’d: Euphelia frown'd :
I sung, and gazed ; I play'd, and trembled :
And Venus to the Loves around
Remark'd how ill we all dissembled.

M. Prior



HEN lovely woman stoops to folly

And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover
And wring his bosom, is — to die,

0. Goldsmith

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