Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane, Thy tenderness is sweet, And grateful is this heart That soon will cease to beat. Thou wert its earliest love, Jane, Thou art its solace here, Thou’lt be its last remembrance. Jane Barnaby, my dear. * * * * * Jane Barnaby, my dear Jane, Life’s flood is ebbing fast, A few more soft’ning sighs, Jane, The shoals will all be past. To bear my spirit hence, Jane, Death’s bark is hov’ring near; Adieu, adieu, a short adieu, Jane Barnaby, my dear. (Seven verses in all.) From _Attempts in Verse_, by John Jones, an old servant. (Edited by Robert Southey, Poet Laureate. 1831.) ―――― BY A GLASGOW BOOKMAKER. (DEDICATED TO G. ANDERSON, M.P.) GEORGE ANDERSON my GEO., GEORGE, before you did invent That Bill of yours, I made a book on every big event; But now my book is blank, GEORGE, and now my purse is low, So cusses on your Betting Bill, GEORGE ANDERSON, my GEO. GEORGE ANDERSON, my GEO., GEORGE, my clerk and I together, With lists in hand, would brave it out, in fine or rainy weather; Now we must take them down, GEORGE (for lists we must not show). And shout the prices out instead, GEORGE ANDERSON, my GEO.! _Punch._ ―――― PARODY ON JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg, When we were first acquent, A tighter hizzy never brush’d The dew frae aff the bent. But now ye’re turn’d as stiff’s a tree, And your pow’s as white’s the snow, There’s naething supple but your tongue My bonnie Meg, my jo. My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg, I wonder what ye mean, Ye’re flyting everlastingly―― Frae morning light till e’en. Some folks say that ye’re failing Meg But I scarce can think it so, For ye flyte as weel as ere ye did, My bonny Meg, my jo. My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg, When nature first began, She gaed every wife a yard o’ tongue To torture her gudeman. She’s been kind to you aboon the lave, An’ I can prove it so, For she’s gien you half a yard to boot, My bonny Meg, my jo. My bonny Meg, my jo, Meg, We clamb the hill thegither, And mony a devilish dust we’ve had Sin’ we met ane anither. Now we maun totter down, Meg, And cheek for chow we’ll go, And we’ll girn at ither at the fit, My bonnie Meg, my jo. ANONYMOUS. ―――― JEAN ANDERSON, MY JO. (_An Imitation._)