Come, my boys, blythe and gawcie,
Every youngster choose his lassie,
Dance wi' life and be not saucy,
Shy nor melancholy.
Come, my boys, &c.
Lay aside your sour grimaces,
Clouded brows and drumlie faces,
Look about and see their Graces,
How they smile delighted:
Now's the season to be merry,
Hang the thoughts of Charon's ferry,
Time enough to come camsterry,
When we're auld and doited.
Now's the season, &c.
Butler, put about the claret,
Through is a' divide and share it,
Gordon Castle weel can spare it,
It has claret plenty:
Wine's the true inspiring liquor,
Draffy drink may please the vicar,
When be grasps the foaming bicker,
Vicars are not dainty.
Wine's the true inspiring liquor, &c.
We'll extol our noble master,
Sprung from many a brave ancestor,—
Heaven preserve him from disaster,
So we pray in duty.
Prosper, too, our pretty duchess,
Safe from all distressful touches,
Keep her out of Pluto's clutches,
Long in health and beauty.
Prosper, too, our pretty duchess, &c.
Angels guard their gallant boy,
Make him long his father's joy,
Sturdy, like the heir of Troy,
Stout and brisk and healthy.
Pallas grant him every blessing,
Wit and strength, and size encreasing,
Plutus, what's in thy possessing,
Make him rich and wealthy.
Pallas grant him every blessing, &c.
Youth, solace him with thy pleasure,
In refined and worthy measure:
Merit gain him choicest treasure,
From the Royal donor:
Famous may he be in story,
Full of days and full of glory;
To the grave, when old and hoary,
May he go with honour!
Famous may he be in story, &c.
Gordons, join our hearty praises,
Honest, though in homely phrases,
Love our cheerful spirit raises,
Lofty as the lark is:
Echo, waft our wishes daily,
Through the grove and through the alley
Sound o'er every hill and valley,
Blessings on our Marquis.
Echo, waft our wishes, &c.
Ye gods.
[This appears in the first volume of Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany (1724,) and, with the music, in the Orpheus Caledonius (1725). It was written by the accomplished William Hamilton of Bangour, on hearing that a young lady of birth and beauty had worn his miniature in her bosom. The tune is called "The fourteenth of October," or "St. Crispin's day," the fourteenth of that month, old style, being the reputed birth-day of the famous king Crispin.]
Ye gods! was Strephon's picture blest
With the fair heaven of Chloe's breast?
Move softer, thou fond fluttering heart,
Oh gently throb,—too fierce thou art.
Tell me, thou brightest of thy kind,
For Strephon was the bliss design'd?
For Strephon's sake, dear charming maid,
Did'st thou prefer his wand'ring shade?
And thou, blest shade, that sweetly art
Lodged so near my Chloe's heart,
For me the tender hour improve,
And softly tell how dear I love.
Ungrateful thing! It scorns to hear
Its wretched master's ardent pray'r,
Engrossing all that beauteous heaven,
That Chloe, lavish maid, has given.
I cannot blame thee: were I lord
Of all the wealth those breasts afford,
I'd be a miser too, nor give
An alms to keep a god alive.
Oh smile not thus, my lovely fair,
On these cold looks, that lifeless air,
Prize him whose bosom glows with fire,
With eager love and soft desire.
