Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, An’ rode thro’ thick and thin; But now she’s floating down the Nith, And wanting even the skin. Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, And ance she bore a priest; But now she’s floating down the Nith, For Solway fish a feast. Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, An’ the priest he rode her sair; And much oppress’d and bruis’d she was, As priest-rid cattle are,—&c. &c. The Gowden Locks Of Anna Yestreen I had a pint o’ wine, A place where body saw na; Yestreen lay on this breast o’ mine The gowden locks of Anna. The hungry Jew in wilderness, Rejoicing o’er his manna, Was naething to my hinny bliss Upon the lips of Anna. Ye monarchs, take the East and West Frae Indus to Savannah; Gie me, within my straining grasp, The melting form of Anna: There I’ll despise Imperial charms, An Empress or Sultana, While dying raptures in her arms I give and take wi’ Anna! Awa, thou flaunting God of Day! Awa, thou pale Diana! Ilk Star, gae hide thy twinkling ray, When I’m to meet my Anna! Come, in thy raven plumage, Night, (Sun, Moon, and Stars, withdrawn a’;) And bring an angel-pen to write My transports with my Anna! Postscript The Kirk an’ State may join an’ tell, To do sic things I maunna: The Kirk an’ State may gae to hell, And I’ll gae to my Anna. She is the sunshine o’ my e’e, To live but her I canna; Had I on earth but wishes three, The first should be my Anna. Song—I Murder Hate I murder hate by flood or field, Tho’ glory’s name may screen us; In wars at home I’ll spend my blood— Life-giving wars of Venus. The deities that I adore Are social Peace and Plenty; I’m better pleas’d to make one more, Than be the death of twenty. I would not die like Socrates, For all the fuss of Plato; Nor would I with Leonidas, Nor yet would I with Cato: The zealots of the Church and State Shall ne’er my mortal foes be; But let me have bold Zimri’s fate, Within the arms of Cozbi! Gudewife, Count The Lawin Gane is the day, and mirk’s the night, But we’ll ne’er stray for faut o’ light; Gude ale and bratdy’s stars and moon, And blue-red wine’s the risin’ sun. Chorus.—Then gudewife, count the lawin, The lawin, the lawin, Then gudewife, count the lawin, And bring a coggie mair. There’s wealth and ease for gentlemen, And simple folk maun fecht and fen’; But here we’re a’ in ae accord, For ilka man that’s drunk’s a lord. Then gudewife, &c. My coggie is a haly pool That heals the wounds o’ care and dool; And Pleasure is a wanton trout, An ye drink it a’, ye’ll find him out. Then gudewife, &c. Election Ballad