Bob Bewick just makes it his calling Unto her his love to declare; And some’s of that mind that John Rawling Would gladly come in for a share. John Forcing doth praise and commend her, Above any lass that wears head; And fain he would be a pretender, If he had but hopes to come speed. Bob Cole strains his wit and invention And compliments to a degree; And twenty that I cannot mention Are all as keen courters as he. She puts them all into such pickle They care not what courses they run, And if (as folks say) she be fickle, ’Tis twenty to one they’re undone. Their loves would fill forty hand wallets, If they were cramm’d in at both ends; Their hearts are all sunk like lead pellets, And very small hopes of amends. Great dangers on both sides encreases, Which very destructive may prove; The lass may be all pull’d to pieces, Or all the poor lads die for love. But that which supports and preserves them, Their stomachs their best friends do prove; And ’tis not a little meat serves them Since they fell so deeply in love. Their fancies and appetites working, It made them so sharp and so keen, The girls mother lost two butter firkins, They wattell’d away so much cream. One day with a good brandy bottle, Two met her about the Heugh Nebb, And there their accounts they did settle, And made all as right as my legg: The snuff-mill and gloves came in season, The want of a glass to supply; They drank the girls first, with good reason, And then the king’s health by the by. The Millers Haugh, Heugh Nebb, and Haystack, The Flowers, the New Close, and Decoy, With places whose titles I know not, Where they met to love and enjoy, Would be but too far a digression, And make our fond passions rebell; But, oh! had these places expression, What pretty love tales they could tell! So many to her bear affection, And give her such lofty applause, I’m love-sick to hear the description, And wish I could see the sweet cause: ’Tis she that could make all odds even, And bring many wonders to pass; I wish all her sweethearts in heaven, Why I were in bed with the lass! SAWNEY OGILBY’s DUEL WITH HIS WIFE. BY THOMAS WHITTLE. To the Tune of, _The worst’s past_. Good people, give ear to the fatalest duel That Morpeth e’er saw since it was a town, Where fire is kindled and has so much fuel, I wou’d not be he that wou’d quench’t for a crown. Poor Sawney, as canny a North British hallion, As e’er crost the border this million of weeks, Miscarried, and married a Scottish tarpawlin, That pays his pack-shoulders, and will have the breeks.