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For if confusion have a part,

Which virtuous souls abhor,
I'll call a synod in my heart,

And never love thee more.
As Alexander I will reign,

And I will reign alone,
My thoughts did evermore disdain

A rival on my throne.
He either fears his fate too much,

Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch,

To gain or lose it all.
But I will reign, and govern still,

And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,

And all to stand in awe :
But 'gainst my

batt’ries if I find Thou storm or vex me sore, As if thou set me as a blind,

I'll never love thee more.
And in the empire of thy heart,

Where I should solely be,
If others do pretend a part,

Or dare to share with me;
Or committees if thou erect,

Or go on such a score,
I'll smiling mock at thy neglect,

And never love thee more.
But if no faithless action stain

Thy love and constant word,
I'll make thee famous by my pen,

And glorious by my sword,

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I'll serve thee in such noble ways,

As ne'er was known before;
I'll deck and crown thy head with bays,

And love thee more and more.

(From Watson's Collection, 1711.]

THE BLYTHSOME BRIDAL.

FRANCIS SEMPLE OF BELTREES.

Fy let us a' to the bridal,

For there will be lilting there ;
For Jock’s to be married to Maggy,

The lass wi’ the gowden hair.
And there will be lang-kail and porridge,

And bannocks o' barley-meal ;
And there will be good saut herring,

To relish a cog of good ale.

And there will be Sawney the sutor,

And Will wi' the meikle mou'; And there will be Tam the blutter,

With Andrew the tinkler, I trow; And there will be bow-legged Robie,

With thumbless Katy's goodman ; And there will be blue-cheeked Dobie,

And Laurie the laird of the land.

And there will be sow-libber Patie,

And plooky-fac'd Wat o' the mill, Capper-nos'd Francie and Gibbie,

That wins in the how of the hill ; And there will be Alaster Sibbie,

Wha in with black Bessie did mool, With snivelling Lilly, and Tibby,

The lass that stands aft on the stool. And Madge that was buckled to Steenie,

And coft him grey breeks to his am, Who after was hangit for stealing,

Great mercy it happen'd na warse : And there will be gleed Geordy Janners,

And Kirsh with the lily-white leg, Wha gade to the south for manners,

* And danced the daft dance' in Mons-meg. And there will be Judan Maclaurie,

And blinkin daft Barbara Macleg, Wi' flae-lugged sharney-fac'd Laurie,

And shangy-mou'd haluket Meg. And there will be happer-a—'d Nancy,

And fairy-fac'd Flowrie by name, Muck Madie, and fat hippit Grisy,

The lass wi' the gowden wame. And there will be Girn-again-Gibbie,

With his glaikit wife Jenny Bell, And misle-shinn’d Mungo Macapie,

The lad that was skipper himsel. There lads and lasses in pearlings

Will feast in the heart of the ha', On sybows, and rifarts, and carlings,

That baith sodden and raw

And there will be fadges and brochan,

With fouth of good gabbocks of skate,
Powsowdy, and drammock, and crowdy,

And caller nowt-feet in a plate.
And there will be partans and buckies,

And whitens and speldings enew,
With singed sheep-heads, and a haggies,

And scadlips to sup till ye spew.

And there will be lapper'd milk kebbocks,

And sowens, and farls, and baps,
With swats, and well scraped paunches,

And brandy in stoups and in caps :
And there will be meal-kail and castocks,

With skink to sup till ye rive,
And roasts to roast on a brander,

Of Aukes that were taken alive.

Scrapt haddock, wilks, dulse and tangle,

And a mill of good snishing to prie;
When weary with eating and drinking,

We'll rise up and dance till we die.
Then fy let us a' to the bridal,

For there will be lilting there;
For Jock’s to be married to Maggie,

The lass wi' the gowden hair.

[This very lively and graphic old song was first published in Watson's Collection of Scottish Poetry, 1706.]

SHE ROSE AND LOOT ME IN.

FRANCIS SEMPLE OF BELTREES,

The night her silent sable wore,

And gloomy were the skies,
Of glittering stars appeared no more

Than those in Nelly's eyes ;
When to her father's gate I came,

Where I had often been,
And begged my fair, my lovely dame,

To rise and let me in.
Fast locked within my close embrace,

She trembling stood ashamed-
Her swelling breast, and glowing face,

And every touch inflamed.
With look and accents all divine

She did my warmth reprove,The more she spoke, the more she looked,

The warmer waxed my love. Then, then beyond expressing,

Transporting was the joy!
I knew no greater blessing,

So blest a man was I:
And she all ravish'd with delight,

Bid me oft come again,
And kindly vowed that every night

She'd rise and let me in.
Full soon, soon I returned again

When stars were streaming free,
Oh slowly, slowly came she down,

And stood and gazed on me:

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