Page:Willie was a wanton wag.pdf/7

 No more asham'd to own her love, Or speak her mind thus free; Gang down the burn, Davie, love, And I will follow thee.





Dear Tom, this brown jug, that now foams with mild ale, Out of which I now drink to sweet Nan of the vale. Was once Toby Filpot, a thirsty old soul As e'er drank a bottle, on fathom'd a bowl. In boozing about 'twas his praise to excel, And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.

It chanc'd as in dog-days he sat at his ease, In his flow'r-woven arbour, as gay as you please, With a friend and a pipe puffing sorrow away, And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay,