IN ye meet a bonny lassie, Gie 'r a kiss, and let her gae;' Be sure ye Of ilka joy when ye are young, Before auld age your vitals nip, And lay you twafauld o'er a rung. Sweet youth's a blithe and heartsome time; Before it wither and decay. Watch the saft minutes of delight, When Jenny speaks beneath her breath, And kisses, laying a' the wyte On you if she keeps ony skaith. Haith ye're ill-bred, she'll smiling say, Syne frae your arms she'll rin away, Now to her heaving bosom cling, These These bennisons, I'm very sure, A WOMAN is like to-but stayWhat woman is like, who can say! There's no living with or without oneLove bites like a fly, Now an ear, now an eye, Buz, buz, always buzzing about one. She is like to my mind, (And Fanny was so, I remember) - She's as good very near As a ripe melting peach in September. Play, joke, and all that, And with smiles and good humour she met me, She is like a rich dish Of vea'son or fish, That cries from the table come eat me! Unsettled and changing, What then do you think she is like? Like a wheel? like a clock? Aye, a clock that is always at strike. Her Her head's like the island folks tell on, She carves for each lover a slice; In truth she's to me Like the wind, like the sea, Whose raging will hearken to no man; Like a mill, like a pill, Like a flail, like a whale, Like an ass, like a glass, Whose image is constant to no man; Like a pea, like a flea, Like a thief, like-in brief, She's like nothing on earth but a woman! H OWsweet in the woodlands, with fleet hound and horn, To waken shrill Echo, and taste the fresh morn! But hard is the chase my fond heart must pursue, For Daphne, fair Daphne, is lost to my view! Assist me, chaste Dian, the nymph to regain, More wild than the roebuck, and wing'd with disdain; In pity o'ertake her, who wounds as she flies: Though Daphne's pursu'd, 'tis Myrtillo who dies! I AM I AM a friar of orders grey, And down the vallies I take my way: And why I'm so plump, the reason I'll tell→→ Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar? After supper of heav'n I dream, Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar? I SAIL'D from the Downs in the Nancy, My jib, how she smack'd thro' the breeze! She's a vessel as tight to my fancy, As ever sail'd on the salt seas. Then adieu to the white cliffs of Britain, But "But sailors are born for all weathers, Great gups, let it blow high, blow low, Our duty keeps us to our tethers, And where the gale drives we must go. When we enter❜d the gut of Gibraltar, She yau'd just as though she was drunk. The squall tore the main-sail to shivers; Helm a-weather! the hoarse boatswain cries, Brace the foresail athwart! see, she quivers, As through the rough tempest she flies. But sailors, &c. The storm came on thicker and faster; Befel three pour sailors and I, Ben Buntline, Sam Shroud, and Dick Handsail, But sailors, &c. Poor Ben, Sam, and Dick, cry'd peccavi; -While they sunk down in peace to old Davy, Of three hundred that sail'd never landed " But sailors, &c. After |