To grant a heart is fairly civil, But to grant a maidenhead's the devil.- An' steer you seven miles south o' hell: Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you, ROB THE RANTER. LINES, WRITTEN EXTEMPORE IN A LADY'S POCKET-BOOK, GRANT me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live To see the miscreants feel the pains they give; Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air, Till slave and despot be but things which were. EXTEMPORE LINES, IN ANSWER TO A CARD FROM AN INTIMATE OF BURNs, WISHING HIM TO SPEND AN HOUR AT A TAVERN. THE King's most humble servant I, Can scarcely spare a minute'; But I'll be wi' ye by an' bye; Or else the Deil's be in it. LINES, WRITTEN AND PRESENTED TO MRS. KEMBLE, ON SEEING HER IN THE CHARACTER OF YARICO. Dumfries Theatre, 1794. KEMBLE, thou curest my unbelief At Yarico's sweet notes of grief, LINES, WRITTEN ON WINDOWS OF THE GLOBE TAVERN, THE graybeard, Old Wisdom, may boast of his treasures, Give me with gay Folly to live; I grant him his calm-blooded, time-settled pleaBut Folly has raptures to give. [sures, I MURDER hate by field or flood, The deities that I adore, Are social Peace and Plenty, My bottle is my holy pool, That heals the wounds o' care an' dool, IN politics if thou would'st mix, Bear this in mind, be deaf and blind, LINES, WRITTEN ON A WINDOW, AT THE KING'S ARMS YE men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering 'Gainst poor Excisemen? give the cause a hear ing; What are your landlords'rent-rolls; taxing ledgers: What premiers, what? even Monarchs' mighty gaugers: [men; Nay, what are priests? those seeming godly wise What are they, pray, but spiritual Excisemen? LINES, WRITTEN UNDER THE PICTURE OF THE CELEBRATED CEASE, ye prudes, your envious railing, True it is, she had one failing, Had a woman ever less? SONGS. THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE. "TWAS even-the dewy fields were green, All nature listening seem'd the while, A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy; Fair is the morn in flowery May, By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. O, had she been a country maid, That ever rose in Scotland's plain! Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, Where fame and honours lofty shine; And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, Or downward seek the Indian mine; Give me the cot below the pine, To tend the flocks or till the soil, And every day have joys divine, With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. NAEBODY. I HAE a wife o' my ain, I hae a penny to spend, I am naebody's lord, I'll be slave to naebody; I hae a guid braid sword, |