My Father he is a muckle good Leard, My Mother a Lady bonny and gay; Then while I have strength to handle a Sweard, The Parson's request Ise never obey: Then _Sawny_ my Man be thou of my Mind, In bonny _Dundee_ we'se ne'er be confin'd, _The Gates we will force to set ourselves free,_ _And never come more to bonny_ Dundee. The _Sawny_ reply'd Ise never refuse, To fight for a Leard so valiant and bold; While I have a drop of Blood for to lose, E'er any fickle Loon shall keep us in hold: This Sweard in my Hand I'll valiantly weild, And fight by your side to kill or be kill'd, _For forcing the Gates and set ourselves free,_ _And so bid adieu to bonny_ Dundee. With Sweard ready drawn they rid to the Gate, Where being denied an Entrance thro' The Master and Man they fought at that rate, That some ran away, and others they slew: Thus _Jockey_ the Leard and _Sawny_ the Man, They valiantly fought as Highlanders can, _In spight of the Loons they set themselves free,_ _And so bid adieu to bonny_ Dundee. _A_ SONG. _Sung by Mr._ Dogget. [Music: Let's sing of Stage-Coaches, and fear no Reproaches; for riding in one, but daily be jogging, while whistling, and flogging, while whistling and flogging, the Coachman drives on; with a hey geeup, geeup hey ho, with a hey gee Dobin hey ho, hey, geeup, geeup, geeup hey ho, geeup, geeup, geeup hey ho, with a hey, gee Dobin hey ho.] In Coaches thus strowling, Who wou'd not be rowling; With Nymphs on each side, Still Pratling and Playing; Our Knees interlaying, We merrily ride. _With a hey_, &c. Here chance kindly mixes, All sorts and all Sexes, More Females than Men, We squeese 'em, we ease 'em, The jolting does please 'em, Drive jollily then, _With a hey_, &c. The harder you're driving, The more 'tis reviving, Nor fear we to tell, For if the Coach tumble, We'll have a rare Jumble, And then up tails all, _With a hey_, &c. _The Crafty Cracks of_ East-Smith-Field, _who pick't up a Master Colour upon_ Tower-Hill, _whom they Plundred of a Purse of_ Silver, _with above Threescore_ Guineas. [Music] You Master Colours pray draw near, And listen to my Report; My Grief is great, for lo of late, Two Ladies I chanc'd to Court: Who did meet me on _Tower-Hill_, Their Beauties I did behold: _Those Crafty Jades have learnt their Trades,_ _And plunder'd me of my Gold._ I'll tell you how it came to pass, This sorrowful Story is thus: Of Guineas bright a glorious Sight, I had in a Cat-skin Purse: The Value of near Fourscore Pounds, As good as e'er I had told, _Those Crafty Jades have learnt their Trades,_ _And plunder'd me of my Gold._