Three Excellent New Songs (5)/The Glasgow Packman

THE GLASGW PACKMAN:

James Ker, that was a packman bold,
thro all the country known,
Stands in a shop in Glasgow town,
James Ker doth call his own:
When he had kept this goodly shop
a twelvemonth and a day,
He seiz'd the ellwand valiantly,
and to himself did say:

What boots it, man! to top and thrive,
all in a shop forlorn?
I'll hire a horse, I'll spend a pound,
as sure as I am born!
What time the preachings, like a plague,
disperse the Glasgow beaux,
And flocks of gospel-ministers
come cawing in like crows:

A gay gelding James Ker has hir'd,
for which he pays a crown;
And he that never rode before,
ariding now is gone.
When o'er the bridge, and forth the town,
and past the toll, I wot,
James wav'd his whip aloft in air,
the horse began to trot.

Blythe o'er the mead
the milk-maid trips lightly,
No care-cankered thought
t bs her cheek of the rose:
Contented and gay
she chants her love-ditty,
'Tis innocence only
this blessing bestows.

Around yon neat cottage,
where wild flowers bloom gaily,
Soft steals the pure stream
down its willowy shore;
There meek-eyed contentment
has chosen her dwelling,
And Peace, softly smiling,
reclines at the door.

How sweet from the dangers
of life's stormy ocean
Secure in this haven
of peace to repose,
To taste the pure pleasure,
the heart-felt emotion,
That innocence, innocence,
only bestows.

Tramp, tramp, along the road he speeds,
the sparkling pebbles fly!
Huzza! James Ker can ride apace!
Ah! why dost bump so high?
And now, a village, calm and fair,
fast rises to the view;
With dogs and cats, aud wives at doors:
Says James, What shall I do!

The wives did stare, the dogs did bark,
the cats astounded fled,
James scarce could fit the saddle-tree,
nor dar'd to turn his head.
A churlish cur, a terrier fierce,
with hideous bark and bay,
Pursu'd the horse's trotting heels;
James damn'd the dog away.

But still it ran, and bark'd, and bay'd,
the wives began to shout;
James rous'd his heart, aud whipt behind;
he could not look about.
Sometimes the lash it bit the horse,
and faster on went he;
Sometimes the dog it touch'd—Says James,
What shall become of me!

At length to desperation rais'd,
he lashes with effect;
The whipstring, with a manful smack,
knots round the terrier's neck
Well done, well done, we true he's nane
t' the godless Glasgow gang;
But a player loop from London come,
the dog, the dog he'll hang.

And hang'd he was and dragg'd by James
triumphant through the town;
And still the village wives proclaim
the rider l wn's renown.
So may ye see that praise and fame
still wait upon success;
Good luck with some than slight of art,
is neither more nor less.

Now let us sing, Long live the King,
and may he, like James Ker,
Ride forth, and at his whipstring end
drag Nap the Terrier.

 

FINIS.

 

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Falkirk—T. Johnston, Printer.—1817.