The Scotch Lad's Moan. OR, Pretty Moggies Unkindness.
To an excellent New Scotch Tune.
This may be Printed, R. P.
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[...]
A Lad o'th' Town that made his moan
one Winters morning early,
Alas! that I must lye alone,
and
Moggies bed so near me;
All night I turn, and toss, and sigh,
And never can I close my eyes,
For thinking that I lig so nigh
the Lass I love so dearly.
She's all Delight from foot to crown,
and just sixteen her Age is,
And that she still must lye alone,
my heart and soul enrag'd is:
I'd give the World I might put on
Each morn her stockings or her shoon;
If I were but her serving-Loon,
I'd never ask for Wages.
GIn
Moggy wou'd but he my Bride,
I'd take no farther warning,
Nor value au the world beside,
nor other Lasses scorning;
My love is grown up to the height,
I prize so much my own delight,
I care not, had I her one night,
so I was dead i'th morning.
Geud faith, she's like a pretty Lass,
I never saw a sweeter;
She all her Sex does far surpass
in Beauty and in Feature:
Gin on her face I chanc'd to gaze,
Her pretty looks such Charms displays,
That I must ever speak her praise;
Venus was not compleater.
When ever
Moggy I espy,
I lowly dof my Bonnet;
And oft in her sweet company
I sing a love-sick Sonnet:
Yet she regardless of my pain,
Which I strive to express in vain,
Bids me forbear for to complain,
and tell her no more on it.
Ah waes me!
Moggy's to blame,
not to grant my desire;
Gin she did first create the flame
which set my heart on fire.
Was I a King of great Renown,
And had a Scepter and a Crown,
I at her feet wou'd lay them down,
one night for to lig by her.
Gin she so mickle is unkind,
my life is grown uneasie;
No rest nor quiet can I find,
nor nothing that can please me.
But if she still continues so,
And no more kindness will bestow,
To the
Elizium shades I go;
ah! Death will quickly seize me.
FINIS.