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Then by there came twa gentlemen,
At twelve o'clock at night ;
Nor coal nor candle-light.
"Now whether is this a rich man's house?
Or whether is it a poor ?"
For barring of the door.
And then they ate the black ;
Yet ne'er a word she spak.
Then said the one unto the other ;
“Here man, take my knife ; Do ye tak aff the auld man's beard,
And I'll kiss the goodwife.
“But there's nae water in the house,
And what shall we do then ? What ails you at the pudding bree
That boils into the pan?”.
Oh up then started our goodman,
An angry man was he;
wife before my face, And sca'd me wi' pudding bree?”
Then up then started our goodwife,
Gi’ed three skips on the floor ; “Goodman, you've spoken the foremost word !
Get up and bar the door!”
NATURE AND FORTUNE,
NATURE and Fortune, blithe and gay,
To pass an hour or two,
At “ What shall this man do?"
“Come, I'll be judge then,” Fortune cries,
“ And therefore must be blind ;”. Then whipped a napkin round her eyes,
And tied it fast behind.
Nature had now prepared her list
Of names on scraps of leather ;
And hustled them together.
Thus mixed, whichever came to hund
She very surely drew;
For what that man should do.
'Twould almost burst one's sides to he'r
What strange commands she gave; That Cibber should the laurel wear,
And C- -e an army have.
At length, when Stanhope's name was come,
Dame Nature smiled, and cried ; “Now tell me, sister, this man's doom,
And what shall him betide."
* That man,” said Fortune, “shall be one
Blest both by you and me : "Nay, then,” quoth Nature, “let's have done;
Sister, I'm sure you see.
Last Sunday at St. James's prayers,
The prince and princess by,
Sat in a closet nigh.
Read all the answers o'er;
Which pierced me from the door.
With the devoutest care ;
And all the raptures there.
And bowed with courtly grace ;
Too warm for that grave place. "Love, love,” said he, “by all adored,
My tender heart has won.'
But I grew peevish at the word,
And bade he would be gone.
A kinder answer meant ;
By half so much repent.
As I went to the wake that is held on the green, I met with young Phæbe, as blithe as a queen'; A form so divine might an anchorite move, And I found (though a clown) I was smitten with love: So I asked for a kiss, but she, blushing, replied; “Indeed, gentle shepherd, you must be denied.” “Lovely Phoebe,” says I, “don't affect to be shy, I vow I will kiss you-here's nobody by.” “No matter for that,” she replied, "'tis the same; For know, silly shepherd, I value my fame; So
pray let me go, I shall surely be missed ; Besides, I'm resolved that I will not be kissed. “Lord bless me!” I cried, “I'm surprised you refuse ; A few harmless kisses but serve to amuse; The month it is May, and the season for love, So come, my dear girl, to the wake let us rove." “No, Damon," she cried, “I must first be your wife; You then shall be welcome to kiss me for life.”
"Well, come then," I cried, “to the church let us go, But after, dear Phæbe must never say No.” “Do you prove but true,” she replied, "you shall find I'll ever be constant, good-humoured, and kind.” So I kiss when I please, for she ne'er says she won't ; And I kiss her so much that I wonder she don't.
THERE WAS AN OLD WOMAN.
There came by a pedlar whose name was Stout,
When this little woman first did wake,
“But if it be I, as I do hope it be,
Home went the little woman all in the dark ;
THE MERRY MAN.
Who loves to be mellow,
I often get frisky
By tippling good whisky
I never took pleasure
In hoarding up treasure ; The sight of a miser I cannot endure,
Who always is griping,
And sharping, and biting, And laying out schemes for to plunder the poor.
Ri fal-da-riddle lah, &c.
Of the beggarly miser
I am a despiser ;
His heirs for his money,
Impatient of honey, Are waiting, and hate him, while with it he toys.
His frame is complaining,
For want of sustaining ;
Instead of good liquor,
To make his pulse quicker, He's gloating and doating on that idol called gold,
As for me, while I'm able,
At the head of a table, Set me down of good whisky a full water-stand,
Where each clever toper
May drink like the pope, or
By the side of that jorum,
Like a Justice of Quorum,
In winter or summer,
With a rollicking rummer,
“Come, drawer, this spirit
Of yours has some merit. Sweet piper, come squeeze up your leather and play;
And hand him the pitcher,
It makes music richer," Thus we'll drink and carouse to the dawning of day.
I hold them but asses
Who wait to fill glasses, -
It only is wasting
The time that is hasting,-
When stopped in my toddy
By death seizing my body,
While there I am lying,
No counterfeit crying,
I've no taste for squalling,
Or old women's bawling,
Who only are selling
Their yelping and yelling
But of whisky a cruiskeen
To fill up each loose skin,
And three jolly pipers
To tune up for the swipers, While each boy honestly swallows his fill.
Then a blackthorn cudgel
For each, should they grudge ill
Nor let them be down-hearted
For him that's departed,
The next morning early,