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No more asham'd to own her love,
Or speak her mind thus free;
Gang down the burn, Davie, love,
And I will follow thee.
THE BROWN JUG.
Dear Tom, this brown jug, that now foams with mild ale,
Out of which I now drink to sweet Nan of the vale.
Was once Toby Filpot, a thirsty old soul
As e'er drank a bottle, on fathom'd a bowl.
In boozing about 'twas his praise to excel,
And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.
It chanc'd as in dog-days he sat at his ease,
In his flow'r-woven arbour, as gay as you please,
With a friend and a pipe puffing sorrow away,
And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay,
