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And now, whatever might betide,

A happy man was I, In any

strait I knew to whom I freely might apply: A strait soon came my friend I tried

He heard and spurn'd my moan; I hied me home, and tuned my pipe

To John of Badenyon.

Methought I should be wiser next,

And would a patriot turn, Began to doat on Johnie Wilkes, And

cry up parson Horne ; Their manly spirit I admired,

And praised their noble zeal,
Who had with flaming tongue and pen

Maintained the public weal.
But ere a month or two had pass'd,

I found myself betray'd;
'Twas self and party after all,

For all the stir they made.
At last I saw the factious knaves

Insult the very throne;
I cursed them all, and tuned my pipe

To John of Badenyon.

What next to do I mused a while,

Still hoping to succeed,
I pitch'd on books for company,

And gravely tried to read;

I bought and borrow'd every where,

And studied night and day,
Nor miss'd what dean or doctor wrote,

That happen'd in my way:
Philosophy I now esteemid

The ornament of youth,
And carefully, through many a page,

I hunted after truth:
A thousand various schemes I tried,

And yet was pleased with none;
I threw them by, and tuned my pipe

To John of Badenyon.

And now ye youngsters everywhere,

Who wish to make a show,
Take heed in time, nor fondly hope

For happiness below;
What you may fancy pleasure here

Is but an empty name,
And dames, and friends, and books also,

You'll find them all the same: Then be advised, and warning take

From such a man as me,
I'm neither pope nor cardinal,

Nor one of high degree;
You'll meet displeasure everywhere

Then do as I have done,
E'en tune your pipe, and please yourselves

With John of Badenyon.

There is something of the sermon in this clever song: the author puts his hero through a regular course of worldly pursuits, and withdraws him from love, friendship, politics, and philosophy, with the resolution of seeking and finding consolation in his own bosom. When the song was composed, John Wilkes was in the full career of his short-lived popularity; and honest Skinner, incensed, probably, at the repeated insults which the demagogue offered to Scotland, remembered him in song. The satire of Churchill, and the wit of Wilkes, united for a time against my native country; and while the people were agitated and inflamed, it was no safe thing for a man even to shout “ Wilkes and Liberty” with a Scottish accent in the streets of London.


Up amang yon cliffy rocks

Sweetly rings the rising echo,
To the maid that tends the goats,
Lilting o'er her native notes.
Hark! she sings, Young Sandy's kind,

An' he's promised ay to lo'e me;
Here's a brooch I ne'er shall tine

Till he's fairly married to me:
Drive away ye drone Time,
An' bring about our bridal day.

Sandy herds a Aock o' sheep, ..

Aften does he blaw the whistle,
In a strain sae saftly sweet,
Lammies list ning daurna bleat.
He's as fleet's the mountain roe,

Hardy as the highland heather,
Wading through the winter snow,

Keeping aye his flock together;
But a plaid, wi' bare houghs,
He braves the bleakest norlan blast.

Brawly he can dance and sing

Canty glee or highland cronach;
Nane can ever match his fling,
At a reel, or round a ring;
Wightly can he wield a rung,

In a brawl he's ay the bangster:
A' his praise can ne'er be sung

By the langest-winded sangster.
Sangs that sing o' Sandy
Come short, though they were e'er sae lang.

This pleasing song was written by Mr. Robert Dudgeon, a farmer, near Dunse in Berwickshire. The air is very popular, and the song very pretty. He is not the only one of his name and family whom the lyric Muse has honoured with her visits.


young Bess to Jean did

say, Will ye gang to yon sunny brae, Where flocks do feed, and herds do stray,

And sport a while wi' Jamie?
Ah, na, lass ! I'll no gang there,
Nor about Jamie tak a care,
Nor about Jamie tak a care,

For he's ta’en up wi' Maggie.

For hark, and I will tell you, lass,
Did I not see young

Jamie pass,
Wi' meikle blitheness in his face,

Out owre the muir to Maggie :
I wat he ga'e her monie a kiss,
And Maggie took them ne'er amiss ;
'Tween ilka smack pleased her wi' this,

That Bess was but a gawkie

For when a civil kiss I seek,
She turns her head and thraws her cheek,
And for an hour she'll hardly speak:

Wha'd no ca' hér a gawkie?
But sure my Maggie has mair sense,
She'll gie a score without offence;
Now gie me ane into the mense,

And ye shall be my dawtie.

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