Page:Tar's conquest, or, The young sailor's ramble.pdf/8

 Now, ye Engliſh foole, you no more dare pretend,

a muſic to vie with my bonny highlandman,

No more ſhall the laſſes of England commend,

the brave merry jigg to compare with my John;

For a merry ſtrain, which enlivens every vein,

wha the d-l with a Scot dare diſpute:

But his bagpipes alone, has too much of the drone,

and, of need muſt be join'd with the German flute.

Come on, bonny lads, with courage advance,

your poor empty ſcripa and your wallets diſown,

Johnny Bute bears the bell, and he lifts up the dance,

at the grand maſquerade at the Thiſtle and Crown,

Where there's ſweetmeats & wine to invite you to dine,

your hunger aſſuage, and your ſpirits recruit,

While moſt ſoft to the ear, hark the bagpipes ſo clear,

in confort reſound with the German flute.

A brave Engliſh fiddle occurs to my ſtrain,

a better never was play'd on before,

The French horn, at a diſtance, will join it amain,

{[em}and the Spaniſh guitar has play'd it before;

But wo to the man who'd be join'd to the band,

the fiddle would be broke, & the fiddleſtick to boot,

For an Engliſhman born wou'd deſpiſe a French horn,

tho' his ear wou'd be tickl'd with the German flute.

I am pleading your beauty to gain,

my heart 'tis a bleeding, I fear your diſdain,

O lovely dear creature, divine in each feature,

let not your faithful adore you in vain.

O where ſhall I wander, deſpairing with grief?

but to you dear Chloe, to give me relief;

All ſorrows they fly me, when you do but nigh me,

of all the world's pleaſure, 'tis you are the chief.