Besides rotten boroughs, the source of our sorrows, These Cinque-Ports, and sinecures all; With pensions and places our council disgraces, Which courts of corruption some call. With truth it is told, some freedoms are sold, And seats traffick’d for at noon day; The barter’s so bold, that for British gold, Our code without scruples convey. These buyers are bound, seat sellers to mound, And vote on the ministers’ side; If he says the crow’s white, or noon day is midnight, They must by his behests abide. In ev’ry debate concerning the state, These relics of representation, Majorities gain, and boldly maintain, Their will is the voice of the nation. THE PLOUGHMAN. The ploughman he comes home at night, When he is wet and weary, Puts off the wet, puts on the dry, And goes to bed my deary. I will wash the ploughman’s clothes, I will wash them clean, O; I will wash the ploughman’s clothes, And dry them on the green, O. The ploughman he comes home fu’ late, When he wi’ wark is weary; Dights off his shirt that is se wet; And supper makes him cheery. I will wash the ploughman’s clothes, I will wash them white, O; I will wash the ploughman’s clothes, And dry them on the dyke, O. THE FLOWER OF ROTHBURY FOREST. Sweet thro’ the forest, Coquet flows, And sweet the flowers its banks adorn; But sweetest far appears my _Rose_, She’s sure the rose without a thorn. Heard you the lilting, At our kye milking, Heard you the lilting yesterday; Heard you the lilting, At our kye milking; The flower of the forest is stolen away. Tho’ Meadowfield[62] may boast its sweets, And meadow sweets its fields adorn; United, all its scents me greets, Present my _Rose_ without a thorn. Heard you the lilting, &c. Tho’ Flotterton[63] may boast its maids, And on Twelfth Eve all others scorn: I envy not their lusty blades, Present my _Rose_ without a thorn. Heard you the lilting, &c. Tho’ at kye milking, maidens sing, The forest’s flower is awa’; I dinna heed, gae tak’ their fling, For troth she’s stown awa’ wi’ me. Heard you the lilting, &c. [62] Meadowfield, name of a place. [63] Maids’ Feast of Flotterton is on Twelfth Even. THE PIPER AT CAPHEATON. At Christmas, when the wind blew cauld, And frost and snaw’s o’er ilka dale, Robin of Norham lost his way, And at Capheaton thus did quail:-- O whether this is lairdly ha’, Or poor man’s shield, O let me in; I’m a poor Piper lost my way, Unsneck your door and let me in. O pity take, and dinna scorn, Heffell[64] and I will die e’er morn; I’ll screw my pipes and heartsome play, And with a sang I’ll weel repay.