The Scotch Lad's Moan. OR, Pretty Moggies Unkindness.  
To an excellent New Scotch Tune.  
This may be Printed, R. P.  
 
 

A Lad o'th' Town that made his moan  
one Winter's morning early,  
Alas! that I must lie alone,  
and Moggies bed so near me;  
All night I turn, and toss, and sigh,  
And never can I close my eyes,  
For thinking that I lig so nigh  
the Lass I love so dearly.   

She's all Delight from foot to crown,  
and just sixteen her Age is,  
And that she still must lie alone,  
my heart and soul enraged is:  
I'd give the World I might put on  
Each morn her stockings or her shoes;  
If I were but her serving-Loon,  
I'd never ask for Wages.   

Gi'en Moggy would but he my Bride,  
I'd take no farther warning,  
Nor value au the world beside,  
nor other Lasses scorning;  
My love is grown up to the height,  
I prise so much my own delight,  
I care not, had I her one night,  
so I was dead i'th' morning.   

Geud faith, she's like a pretty Lass,  
I never saw a sweeter;  
She all her Sex does far surpass  
in Beauty and in Feature:  
Gin on her face I chanced to gaze,  
Her pretty looks such Charms displays,  
That I must ever speak her praise;  
Venus was not completer.   

When ever Moggy I espy,  
I lowly dof my Bonnet;  
And oft in her sweet company  
I sing a lovesick Sonnet:  
Yet she regardless of my pain,  
Which I strive to express in vain,  
Bids me forbear for to complain,  
and tell her no more on it.   

Ah waes me! Moggy's to blame,  
not to grant my desire;  
Gin she did first create the flame  
which set my heart on fire.  
Was I a King of great Renown,  
And had a Sceptre and a Crown,  
I at her feet would lay them down,  
one night for to lig by her.   

Gin she so much is unkind,  
my life is grown uneasy;  
No rest nor quiet can I find,  
nor nothing that can please me.  
But if she still continues so,  
And no more kindness will bestow,  
To the Elysium shades I go;  
ah! Death will quickly seize me.   
FINIS.