Let all the world turn upside down,
And fools rin an eternal round,
In quest of what can ne'er be found,
To please their vain ambition;
Let little minds great charms espy,
In shadows which at distance lie,
Whose hop'd-for pleasure when come nigh,
Proves nothing in fruition:
But cast into a mould divine,
Fair Delia does with lustre shine,
Her virtuous soul's an ample mine,
Which yields a constant treasure.
Let poets in sublimest lays,
Employ their skill her fame to raise;
Let sons of music pass whole days,
With well-tuned reeds to please her.
There’s my thumb.
[The practice of two parties wetting respectively their right-hand thumbs with their tongues, and then pressing each thumb against the other, in confirmation of a bargain or engagement, was common to many ancient nations, and can still be traced among the Moors and other tribes. In Scotland, the custom is not yet altogether extinct, but it is chiefly confined to boys. The name of the Scottish air called, "There's my thumb, I'll ne'er beguile thee," has relation to the old rude ceremony of pressing thumbs, but the original words to the tune are supposed to be lost. We have, however, still two songs which now may be considered old, adapted to the tune. The first is by Ramsay, and appears in the Tea-Table Miscellany (vol. I. 1724.) The second appears in the Orpheus Caledonius, (1725,) and looks very like a production of Ramsay's too.]
I.
My sweetest May, let love incline thee
T' accept a heart which he designs thee;
And as your constant slave regard it,
Syne for its faithfulness reward it.
'Tis proof a-shot to birth or money,
But yields to what is sweet and bonnie;
Receive it, then, with a kiss and smily;
There's my thumb, it will ne'er beguile ye.
How tempting sweet these lips of thine are!
Thy bosom white, and legs sae fine are,
That, when in pools I see thee clean 'em,
They carry away my heart between 'em.
I wish, and I wish, while it gaes duntin',
O gin I had thee on a mountain!
Though kith and kin and a' should revile thee,
There's my thumb, I'll ne'er beguile thee.
Alane through flow'ry howes I daunder.
Tenting my flocks, lest they should wander;
Gin thou'll gae alang, I'll daute thee gaylie,
And gi'e my thumb I'll ne'er beguile thee.
O my dear lassie, it is but daffin',
To haud thy wooer up niff-naffin':
That Na, na, na, I hate it most vilely;
O say, Yes, and I'll ne'er beguile thee.
II.
Betty, early gone a Maying,
Met her lover, Willie, straying;
Drift, or chance, no matter whether,
This we know, he reason'd with her:
Mark, dear maid, the turtles cooing,
Fondly billing, kindly wooing;
See how ev'ry bush discovers
Happy pairs of feather'd lovers.
See the op'ning blushing roses,
All their secret charms discloses;
Sweets the time, ah! short's the measure,
O' their fleeting, hasty pleasure!
Quickly we must snatch the savour
Of their soft and fragrant flavour;
They bloom to-day, and fade to-morrow,
Droop their heads, and die in sorrow.
Time, my Bess, will leave no traces
Of those beauties, of those graces;
Youth and love forbid our staying,
Love and youth abhor delaying,
Dearest maid,—nay, do not fly me,
Let your pride no more deny me;
Never doubt your faithful Willie—
There's my thumb, I'll ne'er beguile thee.
