MOLLY Oil IGGE. 
 Sit ye awhile and tipple a bit. 
 
 The Delights of Wine. 
 
 Caledonia! Native Land! 
 
 The Warrior Bard. 
 
 Beadle of the Parish. 
 
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 Glasgow^Printed for tne Bopksi-IL 
 
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MOLLY O'ltlGGE, AND TOM TREACLE. 
 
 At Cork lived Miss Molly O'Rigge, 
 With a nose like the snout of a pig, 
 Long carroty locks^ 
 And ten pounds in the stocks, 
 Was the fortune of Molly CVRigge, 
 What a beautiful Molly O'R'gge. 
 
 Tom Treacle lov'd Moll O'Rigge, 
 
 A pert little tea-dealing prig, 
 
 Says he, Molly my dove, 
 
 My heart is brim full of love, 
 
 Savs she, Grocer, I don't care a fig, 
 
 What a hard hearted Molly 0*R%ge. 
 
 I hate men, quoth Molly O'Rigge. 
 In Love they're a mere whirligig : 
 Bat Cornelius O' Whack, 
 Gave her heart such a smack, 
 That to church they both caper'd a j%, 
 What a false-hearted Molly O'Rigge* 
 
 feiys the lea-dealer, Molly G'Rigge* 
 &ty heart is with jealousy big, 
 
Says sue, bold your clack, 
 
 I'm now Mrs O'Whack 
 
 I'm no longer Molly O'ltigge, 
 
 Good bye, Mistress Moily O'ltigge. 
 
 SIT YE AWHILE AND TIPPLE A BIT. 
 
 We're gaily yet, and we're gaily yet, 
 And we're no very fou but we're gaily yet, 
 Then sit ye awhile and tipple a bit, 
 For we're no very fou but we're gaily yet. 
 
 There was a lad v and they cad him Dick, 
 He gae me a kiss, and I bit his lip, 
 And down in the garden he shew'd me a trick 
 And we're no very fou. but we're gaily yet 
 And we're gaily yet, &c. 
 
 There were three lads, and they were clad, 
 There were three lasses, and them they had, 
 Three trees in the orchard are newly sprung, 
 And we's a get geer enough, we're but young. 
 And we're gaily yet, &c. 
 
 Then "up wi't Alley, Ailey, 
 
 Opjwi't Aily now, 
 Then up wi't Ailey, quo' kimmer, 
 
 We's a get roaring fou. 
 
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 One was kiss'd in the barn, 
 Another was kiss'd on the green, 
 And the t'other behind the pease-stack, 
 Till the mow flew up in her e'en. 
 Then up wTt Alley, &e; 
 
 Now fye John Thomson, rin, 
 (3 in ever ye ran in your life, 
 De'il get ye, but hye^iuy dear Jack, 
 There's a man got to bed with your wife, 
 Then up wiVAiley &c. 
 
 Then away John Thomson ran, 
 And I true he ran with speed, 
 Bat, before he had run his length, 
 The false loon had done the deed. 
 Then up wi't Alley, &c. 
 
 We're gaily yet, and we're gaily yet, 
 And we're no very fou but we're gaily yet 
 Then sit y r e a-whife and tipple a bit, 
 For we're no very lu' but we're gaily yet, 
 
 THE DELIGHTS OF WINE. 
 
 Let's be merry with jest and song, 
 Time as he'swiftly Hies my boys, 
 
 Will not a second our bliss prolong, 
 But with his scythe mow down our joys 
 
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 Then seije hi' forelock, Mi 
 
 Pleasure dtp m in the bow! — 
 
 We'll toast each {au.'rhter-lovinjr souL 
 
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 O the delights v* loch wine can give-, 
 
 It every g^n'rous bosom fires, 
 Can m&ke the sad ag&'m to live, 
 
 And adds to Venus' fond desires. 
 Sly Cupid sips the potent draft, 
 
 The little urchin dunks to love. 
 While moitals of the heavy heart, 
 
 Own it celestial from above, ■ 
 
 Sorrow but comes too soon my boys 
 
 Fill yourghvs to each beauty bright, 
 Talk not to us ©f flames or darts, 
 
 We'll drink all day, and love all night. 
 Cave, — be thou banish'd from cnr board, 
 
 Momus, — assist with all thy crew : 
 Come,- — Humour, — ape thy merry board. 
 
 And — Wit, — assist thy chosen i^w. 
 
 CALEDONIA I NATIVE LAND ! 
 
 Native land ! Til love thee ever, 
 Let me raise the welcome strain ; 
 
 Mine were banish'd fret, that never 
 Hop'd to press, thy turf again, 
 
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 Now these eyes ill ura'd with gladness, 
 As they scan'ii thy beauties o'er, 
 
 Ne*er again shall melt hi sadness, 
 Parting to return no more, 
 Caledonia, native fond, 
 Native ^and, I'll love the ever. 
 
 Native laird, tho' fate may banish, 
 And ccmmand me far to part, 
 
 Never can thy mem'ry vanish, 
 From this glowing, grateful heart, 
 
 Let an Indian solstice burn me, 
 Or the snows of Norway chill, 
 
 Hither still, my heart, I turn thee, 
 Here, my country, thou art still, 
 Caledonia, native land, 
 Native land, I'll love thee ever. 
 
 THE WARRIOR BARD. 
 
 T4ie Minstrel Boy to the war is gone, 
 
 In the ranks of death you'll find him, 
 Hi? father's sword he has girded on, 
 
 And his wild harp slung behind him.— 
 "Land of song I" said the warrior-bard, 
 
 « Tho' all the world betrays thee, 
 « One sword, at least thy rights shall guard, j 
 
 « One faithful harp shall praise thee r 
 
 
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The minstrel fell ! — but the foetnan's eha-in 
 
 Could not bring his proud soul unu!er, 
 The harp he lov ; d neVr spoke again, 
 
 For he tore its cords asunder ; 
 And said, " No chains shall s.uily tftee, 
 
 "Thou soul of love and bravery ! 
 "Thy[songs we're made for the pure ami free 
 
 "They shall never sound in slavery. " 
 
 BEADLE OV THE PARISH* 
 
 I'm a very knowing prig, 
 L With my laced coat and wig, 
 
 i Though they say I am surly and bentfe!* 
 
 Sure I look a might man. 
 
 When I flourish my rattan, 
 
 To. fright the litt ] e Govs, 
 
 Who in church-time make a noise, 
 Ik- cause I'm beadle of the Parish. 
 
 Here and there, — every where? 
 
 Hollo now, — What's the row? 
 
 Fine to do, — Who are you? 
 W hy, zounds, I'm the Beadle of the Parish* 
 
 Whenever I come nigh, 
 How ( make the beggars My, 
 Mvlooks are so angry and sourish* 
 Like other city folks, 
 1 do business in the stocks 
 
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 M\mm 
 
 
That whate'cr k lost I. tell, 
 
 For you know I bear the bell. 
 
 Because f m the Beadle of the Parish, 
 
 Noise and clatter,— What's the matter? 
 
 Ho'l a, feliow— You are mellow, J 
 
 Knetodo.—don't . y,k see, jl 
 
 Why, zounds— I'm the Beadle of the Parish. 
 
 I'm an officer, don' t laugh,, 
 . But indeed I'm on the staff, 
 And al! sax I do pietty Fairish j 
 
 On a Sunday strut about, 
 
 And I keep the rabble out.—- 
 
 The Church-vestas inarch before, 
 
 Just to open the pew door, _ J 
 
 Because I &m Beadle of the Parish, 
 
 Paffawav,— merry day, 
 
 Drink about,— See it out, 
 
 There will be— snacks for me, 
 BcoLUce I-m the Beadle of the Parish, 
 
 * FINIS.