To the Tune of, Rothes's Lament; or, Pinky-house.
S Sylvia in a forest lay
To vent her woe alone;
Her fwain Sylvander came that way,
And heard her dying moan,
Ah! is my love (fhe faid) to you
So worthlefs and fo vain :
Why is your wonted fondness now
Converted to disdain?
You vow'd the light fhou'd darkness turn,
E'er you'd exchange your love;
In fhades now may creation mourn,
Since you unfaithful prove.
Was it for this I credit gave
To ev'ry oath you swore?
But ah! it feems they moft deceive,
Who moft our charms adore.
"Tis plain your drift was all deceit,
The practice of mankind:
Alas! I fee it, but too late,
My love had made me blind.
For you, delighted I could die:
But oh! with grief I'm fill'd,
To think that credulous conftant I
Shou'd by your felf be kill'd.
This faidall breathlefs, fick and pale;
Her head upon her hand,
She found her vital fpirits fail,
And fenfes at a ftand.
Sylvander then began to melt:
But e'er the word was given,
The heavy hand of death fhe felt,
And figh'd her foul to heaven.
The young Laird and Edinburgh KATY.
WOW wat ye wha I meet yeftreen,
N Coming down the street, my jo?
My miftrifs in her tartan screen,
Fow bonny, braw and fweet, my jo.
My dear, quoth I, thanks to the night,
That never wifht a lover ill,
Since ye're out of your mither's fight,
Let's take a wauk up to the hill.
O Katy, wiltu gang wi' me,
And leave the dinfome town a while;
The bloffom's fprouting frae the tree,
And a' the fummer's gawn to fmile:
The mavis, nightingale, and lark,
The bleeting lambs and whiftling hynd,
In ilka dale, green, fhaw and park,
Will nourish health, and glad ye'r mind.
Soon as the clear goodman of day
Bends his morning draught of dew,
We'll gae to fome burn-fide and play,
And gather flowers to busk ye'r brow.
the daifies on the green,
The lucken gowans frae the bog:
Between hands now and then we'll lean,
And fport upo' the velvet fog.
There's up into a pleasant glen,
A wee piece frae my father's tower,
A canny, faft and flow'ry den,
Which circling birks have form'd a bower:
When e'er the fun grows high and warm,
We'll to the cauler fhade remove,
There will I lock thee in mine arm,
And love and kiss, and kiss and love.
KATY's Answer.
Y mither's ay glowran o'er me,
Tho' fhe did the fame before me;
I canna get leave
To look to my loove,
Or elfe fhe'll be like to devour me.
Right fain wad I take ye'r offer,
Sweet Sir, but I'll tine my tocher;
Then Sandy, ye'll fret,
And wyte ye'r poor Kate,
ye keek in your toom coffer.
For tho' my father has plenty,. Of filler and plenifhing dainty, Yet he's unco fweer,
To twin wi' his gear;
And fae we had need to be tenty.
Tutor my parents wi' caution, Be wylie in ilka motion ;
Brag well o' ye'r land,
And there's my leal hand,
Win them, I'll be at your devotion.
APPY's the love which meets return,
When in foft flames fouls equal burn;
But words are wanting to difcover
The torments of a hopeless lover..
Ye registers of heav'n, relate,
If looking o'er the rolls of fate,
Did you there fee me mark'd to marrow
Mary Scot the flower of Yarrow?
Ah no! her form's too heavenly fair,
Her love the Gods above must share;
While mortals with defpair explore her,
And at a distance due adore her.
O lovely maid! my doubts beguile,
Revive and blefs me with a smile:
Alas! if not, you'll foon debar a
Sighing fwain the banks of Yarrow.
Be hush, ye fears, I'll not defpair,
My Mary's tender as she's fair;
Then I'll go tell her all mine anguifh,
She is too good to let me languish :
With fuccefs crown'd, I'll not envy
The folks who dwell above the sky;
When Mary Scot's become my marrow,
We'll make a paradife on Yarrow.
For now she's miftrifs of my heart,
And wordy of my hand, And well I wat we shanna part
For filler or for land.
Let rakes delyte to fwear and drink,
And beaus admire fine lace,
chief pleasure is to blink
On Betty's bonny face.
I will awa', &c.
There a' the beauties do combine,
Of colour, treats and air,
The faul that sparkles in her een
Makes her a jewel rare :
Her flowing wit gives fhining life
To a' her other charms;
How bleft I'll be, when fhe's my wife,
And lockt up in my arms!
There blythly will I rant and fing,
While o'er her sweets I range,
I'll cry, Your humble fervant, king,
Shamefa' them that wa'd change
A kifs of Betty, and a fmile,
Abeit ye wad lay down
The right ye hae to Britain's isle,
And offer me ye'r crown.
ND I'll o'er the Moor to Maggy,
Her wit and sweetnefs call me,
Then to my fair I'll fhow my mind,
Whatever may
befall me.
If the love mirth, I'll learn to fing;
Or likes the Nine to follow,
I'll lay my lugs in Pindus' spring,
And invocate Apollo.
If the admire a martial mind,
I'll fheathe my limbs in armour ;
If to the fofter dance inclin'd,
With gayeft airs I'll charm her:
If the love grandeur, day and night
I'll plot my nation's glory,
Find favour in my prince's fight,
And fhine in future ftory.
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