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Rest to the weary, to the hungry food,
The last kind refuge of the wise and good:
Inspir'd by thee, dull cits adjust the scale
Of Europe's peace, when other statesmen fail.
By thee protected, and thy sister, Beer,
Poets rejoice, nor think the bailiff near.
Nor less the critic owns thy genial aid,
While supperless he plies the piddling trade.
What tho' to love and soft delights a foe,
By ladies hated, hated by the beau,
Yet social freedom, long to courts unknown,
Fair health, fair truth, and virtue are thy own.
Come to thy poet, come with healing wings,
And let me taste thee unexcis'd by kings.


BOY! bring an ounce of Freeman's best,

And bid the vicar be my guest:

Let all be plac'd in manner due;
A pot wherein to spit, or spue,
And London Journal, and Free-Briton,

Of use to light a pipe, or #

This village, unmolested yet
By troopers, shall be my retreat:
Who cannot flatter, bribe, betray;
Who cannot write, or vote for *.
Far from the vermin of the town,
Here let me rather live, my own,
Doze o'er a pipe, whose vapour bland
In sweet oblivion lulls the land;
Of all, which at Vienna passes,
As ignorant as ** Brass is:
And scorning rascals to caress,

Extol the days of good queen Bess,

When first Tobacco blest our isle,

Then think of other queens--and smile.

Come jovial pipe, and bring along
Midnight revelry, and song;
The merry catch, the madrigal,
That echoes sweet in City hall;
The parson's pun, the smutty tale
Of country justice o'er his ale.

I ask not what the French are doing,
Or Spain to compass Britain's ruin:
Britons, if undone, can go,

Where Tobacco loves to grow.

The authors imitated in these poems are, Colley Cibber, Ambrose Philips, Thomson, Young, Pope, and Swift.

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And I at ew-milking first sey'd my young skill,
To bear the milk bowie nae pain was to me,
When I at the bughting forgather'd wi' thee.


When corn rigs wav'd yellow, and blue hether bells Bloom'd bonny on muirland and sweet rising fells, Nae birns, briers, or breckens gae trouble to me, If I found the berries right ripen'd for thee.


When thou ran, or wrestled, or putted the stane,
And came aff, the victor, my heart was ay fain;
Thy ilka sport manly gave pleasure to me;
For nane can putt, wrestle, or run swift as thee.


Our Jenny sings saftly the Cowden-broom knows,
And Rosie lilts sweetly the Milking the ews;
There's few Jenny Nettles like Nansy can sing;
At Thro' the wood, laddie, Bess gars our lugs ring.
But when my dear Peggy sings wi' better skill,
The Boatman, Tweedside, or the Lass of the mill,
'Tis mony times sweeter and pleasing to me;
For tho' they sing nicely, they cannot like thee.


How easy can lasses trow what they desire!
And praises sae kindly increases love's fire:
Gi' me still this pleasure, my study shall be,
To make mysell better and sweeter for thee.



ID from himself, now by the dawn He starts as fresh as roses blawn, And ranges o'er the heights and lawn, After his bleeting flocks.

Healthful, and innocently gay,

He chants and whistles out the day;
Untaught to smile, and then betray,
Like courtly weathercocks.

Life happy from ambition free,
Envy and vile hypocrisy,

When truth and love with joy agree,
Unsully'd with a crime:

Unmov'd with what disturbs the great,
In propping of their pride and state,
He lives and unafraid of fate,

Contented spends his time.


SPEAK on, speak thus, and still my grief,

Hold up a heart that's sinking under These fears, that soon will want relief, When Pate must from his Peggy sunder. A gentler face and silk attire,

A lady rich in beauty's blossom, Alake, poor me! will now conspire,

To steal thee from thy Peggy's bosom.

No more the shepherd who excell'd

The rest, whose wit made them to wonder, Shall now his Peggy's praises tell;

Ah! I can die, but never sunder.

Ye meadows where we often stray'd,

Ye bauks where we were wont to wander ; Sweet scented rucks round which we play'd, You'll lose your sweets when we're asunder.

Again, ah! shall I never creep

Around the know with silent duty, Kindly to watch thee while asleep,

And wonder at thy manly beauty? Hear, heav'n, while solemnly I vow,

Tho' thou shouldst prove a wandering lover, Thro' life to thee I shall prove true, Nor be a wife to any other.


WHEN hope was quite sunk in despair,

My heart it was going to break;

My life appear'd worthless my care,
But now I will sav't for thy sake.
Where'er my love travels by day,
Wherever he lodges by night,
Wi' me his dear image shall stay,
And my soul keep him ever in sight.
Wi' patience I'll wait the lang year,
And study the gentlest charms;
Hope time away till thou appear,
To lock thee for ay in these arms.
Whilst thou wast a shepherd, I priz'd
No higher degree in this life;

But now I'll endeavour to rise

To a height that's becoming thy wife.

For beauty that's only skin deep,
Must fade like the gowans in May,
But inwardly rooted, will keep
For ever, without a decay.
Nor age, nor the changes of life,
Can quench the fair fire of love,

If virtue's ingrain'd in the wife,

And the husband ha'e sense to approve.

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