The last New Scotch Song.

[...] COuld and Raw the North did blow, Bleak in the Morning Early, all the Trees were hid with Snow dagled in Winters yearly: As I come riding on the Slow I met with a Farmers Daughter, with Rosie Cheeks and a bonny Brow, good Faith made me Mouth to water.

Down I veld my Bonnet low,
Thinking to show my Breeding,
She return'd a graceful bow,
A Village far exceeding,
I ask'd her where she went so soon,
I long'd to begin a parley;
She told me to the next Market Town
On purpose to sell her Barley
In this Purse sweet Soul said I
Twenty pounds lye fairly,
Seek no further one to buy,
For Ple take all thy Barley,
Twenty more shall purchase delight,
Thy Person I love so dearly,
If thou wot lig with me this Night
And go home in the Morning early.
If Forty Pounds would buy the Globe,
This thing I wou'd not do Sir,
Or were my Friends as poor as Iob
I would not raise them so Sir,
For if this Night you prove my Friend,
We's get a young Kid together,
And you'l be gon at the Nine Months end,
And where shall I find a Father.
I told her I had Wedded been
Fourteen Years or longer,
Else I would take her for my Queen
And tye the knot much Stronger,
She bid me then no further come
But manage my Wedlock fairly,
And keep Purse for poor Spouse at home,
For some other should have her Barley.

A CHOICE COLLECTION OF New Songs and Ballads.

THE Words made to several Pleasant Tunes, By Mr. D'urfey.

With the TUNES Transpos'd for the FLUTE.

LONDON: Printed by William Pearson, next door to the Hare and Feathers, in Alders­gate-street, for Henry Playford, and Sold by him at his Shop in the Temple-Change Fleet-street; and at all other Musick Shops in Town. 1699. Price Six-pence.

TO THE Steward in Being, And the rest of the WORTHY SOCIETY Meeting on Wednesdays, At the St. Alban's Tavern in St. Alban's-street; This first Collection of New SONGS, made to seve­ral Pleasant Tunes, is Dedicated by,

Your most Oblig'd and Humble Servant, T. D'urfey.

The Franck Lover, a New SONG.

[...] DEarest believe without a Re╌servation, what neither Time nor Fate shall e'er controul; be you but kind and constant to your Passion, no stormy chance shall e'er disturb my Soul: Jealousie, the bane to Lovers pleasures, far from our Hearts for e╌ver we'll remove, my full Joy, what mortal then can measure, happy in my charming Mu╌si╌do╌ra's love.

When with a Friend abroad I take a Bottle,
Over your Tea regale with who you can;
Or if you find me with a Vizard Prattle,
Do you the same with any other Man:
For Chloe's Face when Ogling I shew Passion,
'Tis all but seign'd, I can ne'er inconstant be;
And when at large I tope the red Potation,
'Twill but more Inflame my Heart with Love of thee.

Gillian of Croyden, a New BALLAD:

The Words made to the Tune of a Country Dance, call'd Mall Peatly.

[...] ONe Ho╌li╌day last Summer, from four to se╌ven by Croy╌den Chimes; three Lasses Toping Rummers, were set a prating of the Times, a Wife call'd Ioan of the Mill; a Maid they call'd Bon╌ney brown Nell, a Widow mine Hostess, Gillian of Croy-den, Gillian of Croyden, Gillian, Young Gillian, Iol╌ly Gillian of Croyden, take off your Glass, cry'd Gillian of Croyden, a Health to our Ma╌ster Will.

Ah! Ioan cry'd the Maiden,
This Peace will bring in Mill'd Money store,
We now sha'n't miss of Trading;
And Sweet-hearts will come on thick, ye whore.
No more will they Fight and Kill,
But with us good Liquour, will swill:
These will be Rare Tymes cry'd Gillian of Croyden, Gillian of Croyden,
Gillian, young Gillian, Plump Gillian of Croyden,
Take off your Glass cry'd Gillian of Croyden,
A Bumper to Master Will.
We've now right understanding,
Hans Dick, and Monsieur shake Hands i'th' streets;
Dragoons too are Disbanding,
Gadzookes then Nelly let's watch our Sheets,
For a Redcoat you know that has will,
Can Plunder and Pilfer with Skill,
I'll look to my Smocks cry'd Gillian of Croyden,
Gillian of Croyden, Gillian, bold Gillian, Wary Gillian of Croyden,
Take off your Glass cry'd Gillian of Croyden,
A Health to our Master Will.
Nel, then with Arms a Kembo,
Cry'd News from Sea not so well does come;
For want of Captain Bembo,
The Chink and Poynti are safe got home:
Tho' he could not help that ill,
The fault lies in some body still,
Would that Rogue were hang'd cry'd Gillian of Croyden,
Gillian of Croyden, Gillian, plump Gillian, Loyal Gillian, of, &c.
Strange Lords will now come over,
And all our Bells will Ring out for Joy;
The Czar of Muscovor,
Who is, Lord bless him, some ten foot high:
I'll see him what e'er comes o'th Mill,
Would our Lads were like him cry'd Nell,
Great pity they ant cry'd Gillian of Croyden, Gillian of croyden,
Gillian, young Gillian, Tall Gillian of Croyden,
Nevertheless cry'd Gillian of Croyden,
A Bumper to Master Will.
Strange News the Jacks of the City,
Have gott cry'd Ioan, but we mind no tales;
That our good King through wonderfull pity,
Will give his Crown to the Prince of Wales,
That Peace may the stronger be still,
And that they may no longer Rebell.
Pish! pox tis a Jest cry'd Gillian of Croyden, Gillian of Croyden,
Gillian, bold Gillian, Witty Gillian, Gillian of Croyden,
Take off your Glass cry'd Gillian of Croyden,
A Health to our Master Will.
So long top'd these Lasses,
Till Tables, Chairs, and Stools went round;
Strong Wine and thumping Glasses,
In three short hours their Senses drown'd:
Then home to her Grannum reel'd Nell,
And Ioan no more Brimmers could fill,
And off from her Chair drop'd Gillian of Croyden, Gillian of Croyden,
Gillian, plump Gillian, Drunk Gillian of Croyden,
Here's the last Drop cry'd Gillian of Croyden,
A Bumper to Master Will.

The National Quarrel; a New BALLAD:

The Words made to the Tune of Lilly burlero.

[...] SHone a Welch, Runt, and Hans a Dutch Boor, as they one Ev'ning for Aire did enploy; found Tague and Sawney just walking be╌fore, a bon╌ny Scotch loon and an I╌rish dear Joy: They all four ne'er saw a Win╌mill, nor had they hear'd of a╌ny such Name, but as they were walking, and merre╌ly talking it happed'd by chance to a Win╌mill they came.

The Chorus goes to the last Part of the Tune.

Hoy down derry hoa dowon derry,
Mirth is better than Sorrow by halfe;
Listen to my Ditty, 'tis merry, 'tis Witty;
And if you an't Sullen 'twill make ye laugh.
Bread cry'd Sawney what do ye caw that,
Pointing to the Winmill.
To tell its good Name I am at a loss.
Tegue then readily answer'd the Scot,
By Chreesht, my dear Joy, 'tis St. Patrick's Cross.
Woons cry'd Sawney y'are mistaken,
For 'tis St. Andrew's Cross that I swear;
For there is his Bonnet, and Plad lying on it,
The Muckle gud Saint did at Edinborough wear.
Sawney, Sawney, weel sayd Sawney,
This Affair Sawney's notably hit,
Let aw discover that pass the Tweed over,
If Scotland e'er bred so bonny a Wit.
Hans with a Belch gave vent in his turn,
Mimicks Dutch.
Jck fall now spraeken den vaght it dos mean;
et ben ods Sacrament a grought Dutch Churne,
And they are now making the Butter within:
This device so tickled his fancy,
He swore by the States he'd go in for some;
And sell his blew Jerkin, but he'd have a firkin,
To carry his Wife and his family home.
Hogan, Hogan, Mogan, Mogan,
Sooterkin Hogan Herring Vandunck,
For as it happen'd the Miller with's Cap on
He thought a fat Froe, a white Dairy Punk.
Hot pated Shone cry'd splut and look'd pig,
You fools was alter your minds when hur speaks;
St. Taffy cawd this her crete Whirligig,
And made it to scare away Crows from her Leeks:
Proof to shew, see where they crow,
Then pointed his finger over the hedge,
Where Nettles and Thistles, with Prickles and Bristles,
Grew thick in a field grown over with sedge,
Shone ap Shinkin▪ Rice ap Tavy,
Shentlemen Kindred aw come away,
Tomas ap Morgan swear loud as an Organ,
And pawn all your Honours to what hur does say.
By good St. Patrick Tegue once more replies,
I say 'tis his Cross for there is his Coat;
I met him in Dublin a buying the Frize,
And gud I will swear, 'tis the same that he bought:
He's a better Shaint than ever Holland, or, Walsh, or Scotland, can breed,
And by my Showlwasion he was my Relation,
And had for stout Tegue great kindness indeed.
Lero, lero, lero, lero,
Lilly Burlero Bullen a-la,
By my Showlwasion he was my Relation,
Chreesht save thy sweet Face St. Patrick Agra.
Each gave his mind, but neither agreed,
The Welsh man grows hot, and the Irish man huffs;
The bonny bold Scot told the Dutch man he ly'd,
A Word and a blow, and so all went to Cuffs:
Coats were torn, and Heads were broken,
Noses were Mawlt, and thumping went round;
But in a while after were forc'd to give quarter,
And so went four fools well beaten to town.
Coats were torn, &c.

PUSS in a Corner:

A New SONG. The Words made by Mr. Durfey, to a pretty New Tune made by a Man of Quality.

[...] TO Cullies and Bullies of Country and Town,
[...] to Wearers and Tearers of Manteau and Gown;
[...] all Christian good People,
[...] that live round Paul's Steeple,
[...] I'll tell you a pleasant Case:
[...] Hot headed I Wedded at Age of Threescore,
[...] a flanting young Wanton, Eighteen and no more;
[...] of Parents I sought her,
[...] and Money soon bought her,
[...] I well might have had more Grace;
[...] For dai╌ly at Table she'd pout and she'd squabble,
[...] and this still was all I got, when e'er I ask'd why,
[...] she'd cry pish [Page 7] fye,
[...] for Gold nor Apparel
[...] I never did quarrel,
[...] but on╌ly you starve my Cat.
A Pretty young Kitty,
She had that could Purr;
'Twas gamesome and handsome,
And had a rare Furr;
And straight up I took it, and offer'd to stroke it,
In hopes I should make it kind;
But lowting and powting,
It still was to me,
Tho' Nature, the Creature,
Design'd should be free.
I play'd with its Whiskers and would have had discourse,
But ah! it was dumb and blind:
When Cloris unquiet, who knew well its diet,
And found that I wanted that,
Cry'd pray, Run, fetch Iohn,
He's the Man that can,
When it does need it, best know how to feed it,
Or gad you will starve my Cat.
As Fleet as my Feet
Could convey me I sped;
To Iohnny who many
Times Pussey had fed.
I told him my Errand, he wanted no warrant,
But hasted to shew his skill:
He took it to stroak it,
And close in his lap
He laid it to feed it,
And gave it some Pap;
And with such a passion it took the Collation,
Its belly began to fill,
And now within Door is, so merry my Cloris,
She laughs and grows wonderous fat,
And I run for Iohn,
Who's the Man that can,
Tho' I'm at distance, give present assistance,
To please her, and feed her Cat.

The LOYAL Scot: or, the King's New Health.

A New SONG. The Words made to a Pretty Scotch Tune.

[...] NOw the ground is hard Froze, and cawd Winter is come, and our Master great Wil╌ly from Holland's got home. Now the Parliament Leards are sat down to command, I'se gang o'er the Tweed in╌to



A New SONG. The Words made by Mr. D'urfey, to a pretty New Tune made by a Person of Quality.

[...] WHere divine Glo╌ri╌a╌na, her Palace late rear'd; and the choicest delights, Art and Nature prepar'd, on the bank of sweet Thames, gent╌ly gliding a╌long; the Love╌sick Phi╌lan╌der sate down and thus Sang: More happy than yet a╌ny place was be╌fore, thou dear blest re╌semblance of her I a╌dore; all Eyes are de╌light╌ed with prospect of thee, Thou charm'st ev╌'ry Sense thou charm'st ev╌ry Sence, ah! just so does she.

As the River's claer Waves Zephyr softly does rowl,
So her breath moves the Passions, that flow in my Soul;
As the Trees by the Sun, feel a nourishing joy;
So my Heart is refresh'd, by a glance from her Eye:
The Birds pretty Notes, we still hear when she speaks;
And the sweetest of Gardens, still blooms in her Cheeks;
Had I that dear bliss, for no other I'd sue;
Who enjoys this sweet Eve, who enjoys this sweet Eve, has all Paradise too.

The SONG Tunes for the FLUTE.

[...] Where Divine Gloriana, Now the ground is hard Froze, and cawd Winter is come;

Books lately Printed for, and Sold by, Henry Playford at his Shop in the Temple-Change Fleet-street.

WIt and Mirth: Or, Pills to purge Melancholy, Being a Collection of the best Old and New Ballads, and Songs, containing near 200, with the Tunes to each. Price 2 s. 6d. in Calf 3 s. Printed for Henry Playford at his Shop in the Temple-Change.

Orpheus Britannicus, being the Choicest Songs of one; two and three Voices, by the late Mr. Henry Purcell in Folio. Price Bound 18 s.

An Introduction to the Skill of Musick, the Thirteenth Edition, to which is Added the whole Art of Composition by the late Mr. Henry Purcell. Price bound 2 s.

The Dancing-Master, the 10th. Edition in two Parts, Price Bound 3 s.

Dr. Blow's Choice Collection of Lessons, for the Harpsichord, or Spiunett, Engraven. Price stitcht 1 s. 6 d.

Mercurius Musious: For Ianuary, and February being a Monthly Collection of New Teaching Songs, with the Tunes Transpos'd for the Flute at the end of the Book. Price Six-pence.

Apollos Banquet, being the easiest and best Instructions for young beginners yet publish'd, containing a­bove a Hundred of the choicest Tunes, for the Violin; The 7th. Edition. Price 1 s. 6 d.

The Division Violin in 2 Books, being all the best Grounds and Divisions, the 4th. Edition; Price of both 4 s. 6d.

A Sheet of Cotches sett by the late Mr. Henry Purcell. Price 3 d.

A Sheet Engraven on Copper, being Directions for the Bass Viol. Price. 6 d.


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