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O’a’ the num'rous human dools,
Ill har’sts, daft bargains, cutty stools,
Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools,

Sad sight to see !
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools,

Thou bear'st the gree.

Where'er that place be priests ca’ hell,
Whence a' the tones o' mis’ry yell,
And ranked plagues their numbers tell,

In dreadfu' raw,
Thou, Tooth-Ache surely bear'st the bell

Amang them a'!

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O thou grim mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes of discord squeel, 'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel

... In gore a shoe-thick ; Gie a' the faes o' SCOTLAND's weal

A towmond's Tooth-Ache !

ON SONG.

Tune--MORAG.

O WHA is she that lo’es me,

And has my heart a keeping?
O sweet is she that lo’es me,
As dews o' summer weeping,
In tears the rose buds steeping.

CHORUS.

O that's the lassie o' my heart,

My lassie ever dearer,
O that's the queen o' woman kind,
And ne'er a ane to peer her.

Dd 2

If thou shalt meet a lassie,

In grace and beauty charming,
That e’en thy chosen lassie,

Ere while thy breast sae warming,
Had ne'er sic powers alarming.

O that's, &c.

If thou hadst heard her talking.

And thy attentions plighted,
That ilka body talking,

But her by thee is slighted;
And thou art all delighted.

O that's, &c.

If thou hast met this fair one;

When frae her thou hast parted,
If every other fair one,

But her thou hast deserted,
And thou art broken hearted.

O that's the lassie o' my heart,

My lassie ever dearer,
O that's the queen o' woman kind,

And ne'er a ane to peer her.

SONG.

SONG.

JOCKEY's ta’en the parting kiss,

O’er the mountains he is gane; And with him is a' my bliss,

Nought but griefs with me remain.

Spare my luve ye winds that blaw,

Plashy sleets and beating rain ! Spare my luve thou feathery snaw,

Drifting o'er the frozen plain.

When the shades of evening creep

O’er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, Sound and safely may he sleep,

Sweetly blythe his waukening be!

He will think on her he loves,

Fondly he'll repeat her name; For where'er he distant roves,

Jockey's heart is still at hame.

SONG.

SONG,

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form,

The frost of Hermit age might warm ;
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind,
Might charm the first of human kind.
I love my Peggy's angel air,
Her face so truly, heavenly fair,
Her native grace so void of art,
But I adore my Peggy's heart.

The lily's hue, the rose's dye, The kindling lustre of an eye; Who but owns their magic sway, Who but knows they all decay ! The tender thrill, the pitying tear, The generous purpose, nobly dear, The gentle look, that rage disarms, These are all immortal charms.

Written

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