An Excellent New Scotch Song, Being lately Sung in a New Play, Called, A Wife for any Man.
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DE'el take the War that hurry'd Willy from me, who to love me just had swoarn, they
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made him Captain sure to undo me, waa is me he'll ne'er return; A thousand Loons abroad
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will Fight him, he from thousands ne'er will run, day and night did I invite him to stay safe
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from Sword or Gun: I us'd alluring Graces, with muckle kind Embraces, now Sighing, then
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Crying, Tears droping fall, and had he my soft arms prefer'd to wars alarms, my love grows
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mad, without the Man of Gad, I fear in my fit I had granted all.
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Just at our parting how my hand a squeezed,
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and gave to me a gentle Kiss,
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And spoke so kind, in truth I was well pleased,
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for I found a joy in this,
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then I did beg him to quit his Commission;
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least he ne'er return again:
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And then how wretched wou'd be my condition,
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If Willy in the Wars were slain.
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I sighing oft did tell him,
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What dangers might befel him,
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In battle Guns rattle, thousands likewise fall:
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and if my love should dee,
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What will become of me,
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Who here must stay lamenting e'ery day,
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And if Willys kill'd, then adieu to all.
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How happy's she whose love is not for fighting,
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nor in the Wars oblieg'd to be,
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but for to stay with her he takes delight in,
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If mine did so then happy me;
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but my love runs thorow many dangers,
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all for Honour that empty name,
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O had he to Wars but been a stranger,
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Then my arms he'd ne'er refrain,
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Tho' I had store of beauty,
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still he cry'd twas his duty,
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To hasten for Flanders, and must be gone,
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But had he sweet Repose
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Preferr'd to bloody blows,
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He nere would fly to Flanders for to dye,
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And thus for to leave me lye alone.
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I washt and patcht to make me look provoking,
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snares that they told me would catch the men
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And on my head a huge Commode sat cocking,
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which made me show as tall agen:
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For a new Gown too I paid muckle money,
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which with golden flowers did shine;
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My Love well might think me gay and bonny,
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no Scotch Lass was ere so fine.
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My Petticoat I spotted,
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Fringe too with thread I knotted,
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Lace Shoes, silken Hose, garter'd over knee,
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But oh! the fatal thought,
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To Willy these are nought,
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Who rid to Towns, and rifled with Dragoons,
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When he silly Loon might have plunder'd me.
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