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And every infant shock repel,
Droops hopeless o'er the exhausted soil,
At length the woodman clears around,
Where'er the noxious thickets spread;
And high reviving o'er the ground,
The forest's monarch lifts its head.


Down in yon village I live so snug,
They call me Giles the plowman's boy;
Through woods and o'er stiles, as I trudge many


I whistle, I whistle, and whoop, gee woo, Jerry,
My work being done to the lawn there I fly,
Where the lads and the lasses all look very sly;
And I'ze deeply in love with a girl it is true;
And I know what I know, but I munna tell you;
But I'll whistle, I'll whistle, for all the girls I
ever did see,

O cherry cheek Patty for me.

Though the squire so great, so happy may'nt be,
As poor simple Giles the plowman's boy;
No matters of state ever addle my pate,
But I'll whistle, Ill whistle, and whoop gee woo

Now cherry-cheek Patty she lives in a vale,
Whom I help'd o'er the stile, with her milking pail;
And Patty has a like notion of me, it is true,
And I know what I know, but I munna tell you;
But I'll whistle, &c.

I'ze able and strong, and willing to work,
And when the lark rises, off trudges I;

The cows as I call, and harness old Ball,
I whistle, I whistle, and whoop gee woo, Jerry.
Then I'ze fifty good shillings my luck has bee

A lad's not to be grinn'd at that's gotten so much,
And when that I'm married to Patty, so true,
I know, what I know, but I munna tell you.
But I'll whistle, &c.


When the morn stands on tiptoe 'wixt mountain and sky,

How sweet 'tis to follow the hounds in full cry! When the bright sparkling dew-drops the meadows adorn,

How sweet 'tis to follow the echoing form,
Tantara, tantara, &c.

Yet greater the pleasure when love leads the way, A nymph to pursue, that's more bright than the


But the joys are divine, when pursuing we find The nymph is o'ertaken, the fair one proves kind, Tantara, tantara, &c.


Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fair?

How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu' o' care?

Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird,
That sighs upon the bough;

Thou minds me o' the happy days
When my fause luve was true.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,
That sings beside thy mate:
For sae 1 sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon,
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o' its love,

And sae did I o' mine

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Frae aff its thorny tree,
And my fause luver stole the rose,
But left the thorn wi' me.



When Bibo thought fit from the world to retreat,
As full of Champagne as an egg's full of meat;
He walk'd in the boat and to Charon he said,
He would be row'd back for he was not yet dead:
Trim the boat and sit quiet, stern Charon replied,
You may have forgot you were drunk when you




It was a Friar of orders grey,
Walk'd forth to tell his beads.


And he met with a lady fair,
Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.

Now, heav'n thee save, thou rev'rend friar
I pray thee tell to me,

If ever at your holy shrine
My true love thou did see.

And how shou'd I your true-love know,
From any other one?

O by his cockle hat and staff,
And by bis sandal shoon.

The holy father thus replied;
O, lady! he is dead and gone,
And at his head a green grass turf,
And at his heels a stone.

Weep no more lady: lady, weep no more,
Thy sorrow is in vain,

For violets pluck d, the sweetest show'rs
Will ne'er make grow again.

Yet, stay, fair lady, rest awhile,

Beneath yon cloister wall,

See thro' the hawthorn blows the wind,
And drizzling rain doth fall.

O stay me not, thou holy friar,
O, stay me not, I pray,
No drizzling rain that falls on me,
Can wash my fault away.


'Tis said we vent'rous die hards,
When we leave the shore,

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Our friends should mourn,

Lest we return

To bless their sights no more; But this is all a notion,

Bold Jack can't understand;
Some die on the ocean,

And some die on the land.
Then since 'tis clear,
Howe'er we steer,

No man's life's under his command,
Let tempests howl,
And billows roll,

And dangers press:

Of these in spite there are some joys,
Us jolly Tars to bless:

For Saturday night still comes, my boy,
To drink to Poll and Bess.
One seaman hands the sails,
Another heaves the log,

The purser swope,
Our pay the slope,

The landlord sells us grog.
Thus each man to his station,

To keep life's ship in trim,
What argufies 'noration ?

The rest is fortunes whim;
Cheerly my hearts,
Then play your parts,

Boldly resolv'd to sink or swim;
The mighty surge,
May ruin urge,

And danger press;
Of these in spite, &c.

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