Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung;
A heart that warmly seems to feel;
That feeling heart but acts a part,
'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.

The frank address, the soft caress,
Are worse than poison'd darts of steel,
The frank address, and politesse,

Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.

ADDRESS TO GENERAL DUMOURIER.

A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR.

YOU'RE Welcome to Despots, Dumourier;
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier;
How does Dampiere do?

Aye, and Bournonville too?

Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier?

I will fight France with you, Dumourier;

I will fight France with you, Dumourier ;

I will fight France with you,

I will take my chance with you;

By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dumourier.

Then let us fight about, Dumourier;

Then let us fight about, Dumourier;

Then let us fight about,

Till freedom's spark is out,

Then we'll be damn'd no doubt-Dumourier.

SWEETEST MAY.

SWEETEST May, let love inspire thee;
Take a heart which he designs thee;
As thy constant slave regard it;
For its faith and truth reward it.

Proof o' shot to birth or money,
Not the wealthy, but the bonie ;
Not high-born, but noble-minded,
In love's silken band can bind it!

ONE NIGHT AS I DID WANDER.

TUNE-JOHN ANDERSON MY JO.'

ONE night as I did wander,
When corn begins to shoot,

I sat me down to ponder,
Upon an auld tree root :

Auld Ayre ran by before me,
And bicker'd to the seas;

A cushat crooded o'er me

That echoed thro' the braes.

THE WINTER IT IS PAST.

A FRAGMENT.

The winter it is past, and the simmer comes at last,
And the small birds sing on every tree;

Now every thing is glad, while I am very sad,
Since my true love is parted from me.

The rose upon the brier by the waters running clear, May have charms for the linnet or the bee;

Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at

rest,

But my true love is parted from me.

FRAGMENT.

HER flowing locks, the raven's wing,
Adown her neck and bosom hing;
How sweet unto that breast to cling,
And round that neck entwine her!

Her lips are roses wet wi' dew!

O, what a feast her bonie mou!
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,
A crimson still diviner!

THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.

TUNE' CAPTAIN O'KEAN.'

THE small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the

vale;

The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning, And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale:

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, While the lingering moments are number'd by care?

No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.

The deed that I dar'd could it merit their malice,
A King or a Father to place on his throne?
His right are these hills, and his right are these
valleys,

Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find

none.

But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn,
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn :
Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody trial,
Alas! can I make you no sweeter return ?

THE BELLES OF MAUCHLINE.

TUNE- BONNIE DUNDEE.'

IN Mauchline there dwells six proper young Belles,
The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a',
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess,
In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a':

Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine,
Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw:
There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton,
But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'.

THE TORBOLTON LASSES.

IF ye gae up to yon hill-tap,

Ye'll there see bonie Peggy;
She kens her father is a laird,

And she forsooth's a leddy.

There Sophy tight, a lassie bright,
Besides a handsome fortune:

Wha canna win her in a night,

Has little art in courting.

Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale,
And tak a look o' Mysie ;
She's dour and din, a deil within,
But aiblins she may please ye.

If she be shy, her sister try,
Ye'll maybe fancy Jenny,

If ye'll dispense wi' want o' sense—
She kens hersel she's bonie.

As ye gae up by yon hill-side,
Speer in for bonie Bessy;

She'll gi'e ye a beck, and bid ye light,
And handsomely address ye.

There's few sae bony, nane sae gude,
In a' King George' dominion ;
If ye should doubt the truth o' this—
It's Bessy's ain opinion!

THE TORBOLTON LASSES.

IN Torbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men, And proper young lasses and a', man ;

But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals,
They carry the gree frae them a’, man.

Their father's a laird, and weel he can spare 't,
Braid money to tocher them a', man,
To proper young men, he'll clink in the hand
Gowd guineas a hunder or twa, man.

There's ane they ca' Jean, I'll warrant ye've seen
As bonie a lass or as braw, man,

But for sense and guid taste she'll vie wi' the best, And a conduct that beautifies a', man.