_A_ Scotch SONG _made to the_ Irish JIGG, _and Sung to the King at_ Whitehall.
Lately as thorough the fair _Edinborough_, To view the fair Meadows as I was ganging; _Jockey_ and _Moggy_ were walking and talking, Of Love and Religion, thus closely Haranguing; Never says _Moggy_, come near me false _Jockey_, For thou art a _Whig_, and I mean to abhor thee; Ize be no Bride, nor will lig by thy side, For no sneaking Rebel shall lift a Leg o'er me.
_Jockey._ Fairest and Dearest, And to my Heart nearest, To live with thy Frowns I no longer am able; I am so loving, And thou art so moving, Each Hair of thy Head ties me fast as a Cable: Thou hast that in thee, Ise sure to win me, To _Jew_, _Turk_ or _Atheist_, so much I adore thee; Nothing I'd shun, That is under the Sun, So I have the pleasure to lift a Leg o'er thee.
_Moggy._ Plotters and Traytors, And Associators, In every degree thou shalt swear to oppose 'em; Swimmers and Trimmers, The Nations Redeemers, And for thy Reward thou shalt sleep in my Bosom; I had a Dad, Was a Royal brave Lad, And as true as the Sun to his Monarch before me; _Moggy_ he cry'd, The same hour that he Dy'd, Let no sneaking Rebel e'er lift a Leg o'er thee.
_Jockey._ Adieu then ye Crew then, Of Protestant Blue Men, No Faction his _Moggy_ from _Jockey_ shall sever; Thou shalt at Court, My Conversion Report, I am not the first Whig by his Wife brought in favour; Ise never deal, For the dull Common Weal, To fight for true Monarchy shall be my Glory; Lull'd with thy Charms, Then I die in your Arms, When I have the Pleasure to lift a Leg o'er thee.
There was a Lass of _Islington_, As I have heard many tell; And she would to Fair _London_ go, Fine Apples and Pears to sell: And as along the Streets she flung, With her basket on her Arm: Her Pears to sell, you may know it right well, This fair Maid meant no harm.
But as she tript along the Street, Her pleasant Fruit to sell; A Vintner did with her meet, Who lik'd this Maid full well: Quoth he, fair Maid, what have you there? In Basket decked brave; Fine Pears, quoth she, and if it please ye A taste Sir you shall have.
The Vintner he took a Taste, And lik'd it well, for why; This Maid he thought of all the rest, Most pleasing to his Eye: Quoth he, fair Maid I have a Suit, That you to me must grant; Which if I find you be so kind, Nothing that you shall want.