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Sweet is the ship, that, under sail,
Spreads her white bosom to the gale;

Sweet, O sweet's the flowing cann;
Sweet to poise the lab’ring oar,
That tugs us to our native shore,

When the boatswain pipes the barge to man.
Sweet sailing with a fav’ring breeze,
But O! much sweeter than all these,

Is Jack's delight, his lovely Nan. The needle, faithful to the north, To show of constancy the worth,

A curious lesson teaches man;
The needle, time may rust; a squall
Capsize the binnacle and all,

Let seamanship do all it can:
My love in worth shall higher rise,
Nor time shall rust, nor squalls capsize,

My faith and truth to lovely Nan.
When in the bilboes I was penn'd,
For serving of a worthless friend,

And ev'ry creature from me ran: No ship performing quarantine Was ever so deserted seen,

None hail'd me, woman, child, or man: But though false friendship's sails were furld, Tho' cut adrift by all the world,

I had all the world in lovely Nan.

I love my duty, love my friend,
Love truth and merit to defend,

To mourn their loss who hazard ran:
I love to take an honest part,
Love beauty and a spotless heart,

By manners love to show the man;

To sail thro’ life by honour's breeze:
'Twas all along of loving these,

First made me doat on lovely Nan.


TUNEBanks of the Devon.”
Wild howls the wind o'er the loud dashing ocean,

Fierce beat the dark billows on Coila's smooth shore; While friendless I wander amid the commotion,

And muse on the spot I may never tread more. Ah no, my sad breast, never more must thou wander

Those scenes, to thy mem'ry tho' ever so dear, Never more wi' thy lassie, by Clyde's smooth meander, No

eye o'er thy fate shall drop pity's soft tear. More dread, and more ruthless the surge o' misfortune,

Beat 'gainst this sad breast in my youth's early dawn; The keen blasts o' sorrow the tender stem tore soon,

An' crush'd low in dust ere the floweret was blawn. This woe-laden bosom is now weakly beating,

And trembling those limbs as I slow pace the shore; At each quiv'ring throb I feel life quick retreating,

And Fatę, hov’ring nigh, says the struggle'is o'er. Hark, the wind stills, and lo where the high foaming

billow, Late scatter'd his locks ’mong the robes o' the sky, Serene play the sun rays o' bright beaming yellow,

And nature sweet smileth as order draws nigh. Ev'n so, thou lov'd maiden, when life's storms are over,

A calm such as this we'll enjoy on yon shore, But more sweet, and a happier clime we'll discover,

Where Fate, all relentless, can part us no more.

* Written by a young Gentleman while standing by the sea shore at Saltcoats.

HALLOW FAIR. TUNE_" Fy let us a' to the bridal." TAERE's fouth o' braw Jockies and Jennies

Comes weel buskit into the fair, Wi' ribbons on their cockernonies,

And fouth o' fine flour in their hair. O Maggie she was sae weel busked,

That Willie was tied to his bride; The poney was ne'er better whisked

Wi' a cudgel that hang frae his side.

But Maggie was wond'rous jealous,

To see Willie busked sae braw; And Sawney he sat in the ale-house,

And hard at the liquor did ca'. There was Geordie that weel lo’ed his lassie,

He took the pint stoup in his arms, And hugg'd it, and said, Troth they're saucy

That lo’es na a gude father's bairn. There was Wattie, the muirland laddie,

Was mounted upon a grey cowte, Wi' sword by his side, like a caddie,

To drive in the sheep and the nowte. His doublet sae weel it did fit him,

It scarcely came down to mid-thigh, Wi' hair pouther'd, hat, and a feather,

And housing at courpon and tee. But Bruckie play'd boo to Bawsie,

And aff scour'd the cowte like the win'; Poor Wattie he fell on the causey,

And birs'd a' the banes in his skin. His pistols fell out o' the hulsters,

And were a' bedaubed wi' dirt: The folk they came round him in clusters, Some leugh, and cry'd, Lad, was ye hurt? The cowte wad let naebody steer him,

He was aye sae wanton and skeigh; The packmen's stands he o'erturn'd them,

And gart a' the fair stand abeigh. Wi' sneering behind and before him;

For sic is the mettle o' brutes ; Poor Wattie, and wae's me for him,

Was fain to gang hame in his boots. Now it was late in the ev’ning,

And bughting time was drawing near; The lasses had stenched their greening

Wi' fouth o' braw apples and beer. There was Lillie, and Tibbie, and Sibbie,

And Ceicy on the spindle could spin, Stood glowring at signs and glass winnocks,

But deil a lad bade them come in. Gude guide's ! saw ye ever the like o't?

See yonder's a bonny black swan; It glowrs as it wad fain be at us; What's


that hauds in its han'? Awa, daft gowk, cries Wattie,

They're a' but a rickle o sticks; See there is Bill, Jock, and auld Hackie,

And yonder's Mess John and Auld Nick. Quo' Maggie, Come buy us our fairing,

To Wattie, wha sleely could tell,
I think thou’rt the flow'r o' the clachan,

In troth now I'se gie you mysel.
But wha wad e'er thought it o' him,

That e'er he had rippled the lint? Sae proud was he o' his Maggie,

Though she did baith scailie and squint.


WHAT! is there ill news, ye're so sad,

Robin Gray, That thy blue bonnet's pulld o'er thy brow?

O! sad news! sad! sad!

Poor Robin is dead,
And the plowman weeps over his plow,

Well a well a day.
And the plowman weeps over his plow.
Is his pipe mute for aye, and for aye,

Robin Gray,
No more shall we 'tend to his song?

Ay, cold as a clod

Beneath the green sod,
Poor Robin they've laid all along,

Well a well a day,
Poor Robin they've laid all along.
Adieu then, the forest and hill,

Robin Gray,
And farewell the vallies and grove!

Why the forest and hill,

And the vallies ring still, Still, echo his ditties of love,

Well a well a day, Still echo his ditties of love.

The sad sound of echo I'll shun,

Robin Gray,
Its dying notes live on my mind;

Can you then as you roam

From your forefathers' home, Leave

your country's feeling behind.

Well a well a day,
Leave your country's feeling behind.


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