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At church every morning her prayers she would scan And each night sigh and think of-the duty of man, With her groaning, moaning, sighing, dying ta bernacle-love feasts.

The follies of youth she had long given o'er,
For the virgin I sing of-was turn'd fifty-four:
Yet suitors she had, who, with words sweet as honey,
Strove hard to possess the bright charms of her


With her household, leasehold, freehold, and her copyhold and tenement.

The first who appear'd on this am'rous list,
Was a tailor who swore by his thimble and twist,
That if his strong passion she e'er should refuse,
He'd depart from the world, shop, cabbage, and

With his waistcoat, breeches, measures, scissors, button-holes, and buckram.

The next was a Butcher, of slaughter ox fame,
A very great boor, and Dick Hog was his name:
He swore she was lamb, but she laugh'd at his pains,
For she hated calf's head-unless serv'd up with


With his sheep's head, lamb's fry. chitterlinshis marrow bones and clevers.

After many debates, which occasion'd much strife, 'Mongst love sick admirers to make her his wife, Te end each dispute came a man out of breath, Who elop'd with the maid, and his name was grim Death.

With his pick axe, sexton, coffin, funeral, skeleton, and bone house..

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Had I a heart for falsehood framed,
I ne'er could injure you;

For though your tongue no promise claim'd,
Your charms would make me true;

To you no soul shall bear deceit,

No stranger offer wrong,
But friends in all the aged you'll meet,
And lovers in the young.

But when they learn that you have blest
Another with your heart,

They'll bid aspiring passion rest,
And act a brother's part;
Then, lady, dread not here deceit,
Nor fear to suffer wrong,
For friends in all the aged you'll meet,
And lovers in the young.


Ye banks and braes, and streams around,
The Castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flow'rs,
Your waters never drumlie,

Their simmer first unfaulds her robes,
And there they langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel
Of my dear Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,

As underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasp'd her to my bosom ;
The golden hours on angel's wings,
Flew o'er me, and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life,

Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender,
And pledging aft to meet again,
We tore ourselves asunder,
But oh, fell death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower so early;
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary.

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft bae kiss'd sae fondly;
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly;
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'd me dearly;
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.


Mr. Peter Snout was invited out,
Heigho, fiddle de dee,

He had but one shirt, and he made a route,
For that moment his wife had washed it out,
While snug in bed lay he.

The dinner was nigh, and shirt not dry,
Heigho, fiddle de dee,

Oh dear Mrs. Snout, what are you about?
If my shirt's not dry, I am off without,
I'll be d-d if I don't, says he.

They expect me at five, so says the note,
Heighbo fiddle de dee,

A clean cravat I'll tie round my throat,
And up to the chin I'll button my coat;
It will do very well says she.

He came to the house, and doff'd his hat,
Heighho, fiddle de dee;

He made a fine bow and down he sat,
Under his waistcoat he showed his cravat,
Which the ladies all blushed to see.

The weather was rainy, now mind the rig,
Heigho, fiddle de dee;

He could not go home, but was forced to pig,
With parson Botch, a clerical prig;

I shall sleep very well, said he.

Parson Botch always changed his linen at night,
Heigho, fiddle de dee,

And Mr. Snout, long before it was light,
Slipped into his skin, tho' it was short and tight,
And out of the room crept he.

The bedfellows soon at breakfast met,
Heigho, fiddle de dee,

Parson Botch, he pretended the law he would get, Says Mr. Snout, 'tis a folly to fret,

I appeal to this company.

The ladies all vow'd Mr. Botch was a sinning,
Heigho, hddle de dee,

Said they, with a vast deal of blushing and grinning

We all took notice of Mr. Snout's linen:

So off with the shirt went he.


Adieu, adieu, my only life!
My honour calls me from thee;
Remember thou'rt a soldier's wife,

Those tears but ill become thee; What though by duty I am called,

Where thundering cannons rattle, Where valour's self might stand appall'd, When on the wings of my dear love, To heaven above,

Thy fervent orisons are flown !
The tender prayer,
Thou puttest up there,
Shall call a guardian angel down,
To watch me in the battle.

My safety thy fair truth shall be,

And sword and buckler serving;
My life shall be more dear to me,

Because of thy preserving.
Let peril come, let horror threat,

Let thundering cannons rattle,
I'll fearless seek the conflicts heat,

Assured when on the wings of love,
To heaven above, &c.

Enough with that benignant smile,

Some kindred God inspire thee, Who knew thy bosom void of guile,

Who wondered and admired thee, I go assured, my life, adieu,

Tho' thundering cannons rattle,

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