Page:Betsey Baker (1).pdf/7

 7 She said the little god of love

Her tender bosom haunted,

Dear Sir, I almost blush to own,

But, Mr York you’re wanted.

In wedloc need not ,

Most h, Sir,

And how how we fought,

Shall n told, Sir;

For Mr. D in one day,

And s he planted;

I wiped my thanked my

’Twas York he wanted.

So, ladies, pray now guard your hearts,

A secret tell, O;

A widower with half a plumb

Must needs be a rich fellow.

With fifty thousand pounds, I think

I ought not to be daunted,

Some lovely girl, I hope, ere long,

Will say, Sweet York, you’re wanted.

 

THE EMIGRANT’S FAREWELL.

TUNE—My Guid Lord Jo.

native landour native vale

A long and last adieu!

Farewell to bonnie Tivotdale,

And Cheviot mountains blue