over me,

Naked I'll wander wherever it blows! And, if my father should try to recover me,

Sure it won't be by describing my clothes.

The music I hear now takes hold of my ear now,
And leads me all over the town by the nose!'
So I follow'd his bag-pipe so sweet,
And sang, as I leap'd like a frog,

Adieu to my family seat,

So pleasantly plac'd in a bog.

With my fa ral la, lal lal la loo, och hone!
How sweetly he handl'd the drone;
And then such sweet music he blew,
'Twould have melted the heart of a stone!

Full five years I follow'd him, nothing could sun

der us,

Till he one morning had taken a sup, And slipp'd from a bridge in a river just under us, Souse to the bottom, just like a blind pup.

I roar'd and I bawl'd out, and lustily call'd out,
'O Paddy, my friend, don't you mean to come up?'
He was dead as a nail in a door;

Poor Paddy was laid on the shelf;
So I took up his pipes on the snore,
And now I've set up for myself,
With my fa ral la, lal lal la, loo!

To be sure I have not got the knack,
To sing fa ral la, lal lal la loo, och hone!
Ay, and bubbaroo, didderoo whack!

oft

O! Jeannie Gray, love, Jeannie Gray,

My heart still lingers there,
Where first young love did homage pay,
And breathe its lowly prayer;

When, hand in hand, we rov'd along,
Our path with verdure crown'd,
And joyous birds their thrilling song
In gladness woke around.

O! Jeannie Gray, &c.

O! Jeannie Gray, love, Jeannie Gray,
Dost thou remember yet
Those days of love long past away,
Which I can ne'er forget.

Though weary wandering far I be,
Fond memory ne'er does cease

To sigh for them, and breathe for thee
A prayer for joy and peace.

O! Jeannie Gray, &c.

took my bonnet aff my head, Quo' I, 'My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird, Is that a tale ye borrow?

Or is 't some words ye've learn'd by rote?
Or a lilt o' dule and sorrow?'
'O! no, no, no,' the wee bird sang,
I've flown sin' mornin' early;
But sic a day of wind and rain!-
O, wae's me for Prince Charlie!

'On hills that are by right his ain,
He roams a lonely stranger:
On ilka hand he's press'd by want,
On ilka side by danger.
Yestreen I met him in a glen,

My heart near bursted fairly,
For sadly chang'd indeed was he-
O, wae's me for Prince Charlie!

4

For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie.

Dark night came on, the tempest howl'd
Out ower the hills and valleys;
And whar was't that your prince lay down,
Whase hame should be a palace?
He row'd him in a highland plaid,
Which cover'd him but sparely,
And slept beneath a bush o' broom,-
O, wae's me for Prince Charlie !'
But now the bird saw some red-coats,
And he shook his wings wi' anger:
'O! this is no a land for me,-
I'll tarry here nae langer.'
Awhile he hover'd on the wing,
Ere he departed fairly;

But weel I mind the fareweel strain,-
'Twas-Wae's me for Prince Charlie !'

By some I'm call'd a little bald,-
A scandal false and horrid ;-

The brutes, I see, all envy me

My broad and lofty forehead;

To match my hair, complexion fair
(I suffer much from pimples);
The three Miss L.'s talk of my dells-
Pert minxes! I say dimples.

Some blockheads scoff, and call me dwarf
(I curl my lip the brutes on ;)
I'm fre foot neat, in stocking feet,
And five foot two, with boots on.

I never drink, nor ever wink

At girls; I love the graces;

I say my prayers; I never swears;
Nor goes to naughty places.

To chapel I on Sunday fly,

And sing my way to heaven;

I'm home at ten each night, and then
In bed before eleven.

very spruce at night, though.

I knit no brows, kick up no rows

(Though aunt declares I'm whim-med); Some horses prides-I never rides,

I'm so uncommon timid.
Widow or maid, I'm not afraid,

Nor my own merits lauding;
My fortune's good (be 't understood
That her'n must be according).
Fair, be not check'd, I sha'nt object
To age, whate'er disparity;
No hair or eyes will I despise,

Blue, gray, black, brown, or carroty.
At half-past eight, each night, I'll wait
In Regent Street, on view; don't
Fear-make free-and speak to me,--
I can't begin if you don't.

Those who think better, send by letter
(If for decorum sticklers)
To S. A. P.-direct for me,
Post-paid, and state perticklars.

Robin, a bachelor profess'd,

At love and lovers laughs,

And o'er the bowl, with reckless jest,

His pretty spinster quaffs;

Then, whilst, all sobbing, Janet cries, 'She scorns the scornful swain ;' With angry haste her wheel she plies, And-snaps the thread again !

Vivace.

love a sly sup of good wine, Apieius and Æsop, as authors assure us, Would swig till as drunk as a beast! Den what do you tink of that rogue Epicurus? Was not he a tight hand at a feast!

With your smalliliow, &c. Alexander the Great, at his banquets who drank When he no more worlds could subdue, [hard, Shed tears, to be sure--but 'twas tears of the tankard, To refresh him-and pray would not you? With your smalliliow, &c.

Den dat t'other old fellow they call'd Aristotle,
Such a devil of a tippler was he,
[tle,
That one night, having taken too much of his bot-
The taef stagger'd into the sea,

With your smalliliow, &c. Den they made what they call'd of their wine a libation,

Which, as all autority quotes, [ation! They threw on the ground-musha, what botherTo be sure, 'twas not thrown down their troats. With your smalliliow, &c.

ray.