The Scotch Lass Deceived By her Bonny Lad JOCKEY.  
To a New Scoth Tune of Mr. Farmers.  
This may be Printed, R. P.  

(1)  
WHen cold Winter Storms were passed,  
And every Mead with Flowers was graced,  
My Jockey then as fine as May,  
With Bonnet cocked up, and a feather so gay,  
Each day came to me,  
To Cog, Lie, and Sue me,  
To flatter and Woo me,  
But I, alas! believed to soon,  
And at last found him to be a false Loon,  
To my sorrow.   

(2)  
Early when the God of Day,  
Had just in the Eastern Skies made way,  
Then Jockey came to my Bedside,  
Wolt gang tull a Kirk, says he, and be my bride?  
I answered Marry,  
Ise not ready for ye,  
Ise mean for to tarry,  
And first for our Wedding provide;  
Then Wed with Jockey, and lig by his side,  
To delight him.   

(3)  
On my breast he leaned his head,  
And thirst down his hand into the bed,  
Then I cried out, O fee, O fee,  
Thou art sike a Loon as I never did see,  
My bonny Jockey,  
I never yet took ye,  
To be so Unlucky,  
To hurt the Lass you love so well;  
Who never beneath a bonny Lad fell  
In my life, Sir.   

(4)  
Ise got in a good merry Mude,  
He thought it was time then to be Rude;  
He kindly stroked my Downy Wem,  
And farther proceeded, O then, O then,  
I cried, nay, look ye,  
Nay, prithee now Jockey,  
Be not so Unlucky,  
For after you will not abide.  
To take sike a bonny Lass to your Bride,  
I am sure on't.   

(5)  
When my Jockey the Deed had done,  
He risen from the Bed and would have been gone,  
I caught him by th' Breeches, and asked him to wed  
'Tis Marriage enough, says he, for as to Bed;  
And so did he leave me,  
Which greatly did grieve me,  
He thus should deceive me;  
And then quit his Courtship so soon;  
But if I trust like another false Loon,  
Deel take me.   

(6)  
Bonny Lasses all take care,  
No Lads e'er delude ye into sike a Snare:  
For if they once creep into your Bed,  
You never must after expect them to Wed;  
What words they scatter,  
They never make matter,  
'Tis only to flatter,  
For when the Loon his Will has had,  
You may look out for another sike Lad,  
For he'll leave you.    

Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden-Ball in Pie-corner, near West-Smithfield.