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 How blest is she whose love is not for fighting,

Nor In the wars oblig’d to be;

But to continue with her he has delight in:

If mine did so then happy me

But mine runs through many dangers,

All for honour, that empty name.

Oh! had he to wars been a stranger,

Then my arms he’d ne’er refrain.

Though I had store of beauty,

He cry’d, It was his duty

For to go to Flanders, and he must be gone.

But had he sweet repose

Preferr d to bloody blow,

He ne’er would flie,

To Flanders for to die,

And thus to leave me to lie alone.

I wash’d and patch’d to make me more provoking,

Snares they told me would catch the men,

And on my head a large commode sat cocking,

Which made me shew as tall again.

It’s for a gown too paid much money,

Which with golden flowers did shine.

My love might well think me gay and bonny,

No Scots lass was e’er so fine.

My petticoat was spotted,

Fring’d too, with thread I knotted.

Lac' d shoes, silk hose, garter’d over knee.

But, oh! the fatal thought,

To Willy these were nought,

Who rode to towns,

Riffled with dragoons

While the silly loon might have plunder’d me.

ARLY in the morning, by the break of day,

I saw a jolly sailor, and a lady gay,