8
She's rambled up, she's rambled down,
She's rambled through Perth town O,
And when she came to the brewer's door,
She was ashamed to gang in O!
He's drawn his course where e'er he's gane,
His country he has fled O!
He's not left a shift upon her back,
Nor a blanket on her bed O!
The brewer he set up in Perth,
And often brewed strong ale O!
And he has courted a bonny lass,
And ta'en her to his sell O!
Ye lovers all where'er ye be,
By me now take a warning.
And never slight your ain true love,
For fear you get a waur ane.
———
THE HERO MAY PERISH.
The hero may perish, his country to save,
And he lives in the records of fame;
The sage may the dungeons of tyranny brave—
Ever honour'd and blest be his name!
But virtue that silently toils or expires,
No wreath for the brow to entwine:
That asks but a smile—but a fond sigh requires,
O woman! that virtue is thine.
