How oft I've sworn to Caroline,
The world no sight can show,
To match her locks, her lips divine,
Her bosom's hills of snow.
But oh! I find myself forsworn,
Two lips I have beheld;
Still lovelier, on this happy morn,
A mount that those excell'd!
For chance has shewn me all that lies
Beneath her virgin zone;
Sure never seen by any eyes
Of man, save mine alone!
As o'er my face the swing I drove,
As wider flew her thighs;
The opening heaven itself o' love
Met my delighted eyes!
Her bosom boasts no swell so fair
No tints that these eclipse;
Her head has no such auburn hair,
Nor such enchanting lips!
Yes I've beheld the mossy mount,
Where all the graces centre;
I've seen the rosy, nectar'd fount,
Where he she loves shall enter!
While from within her petticoat,
A warm and savoury breeze,
Full in my face, would sweetly float,
Loaded with ecstasies!
Then be not wrath my matchless maid,
Nor blush so deep with shame;
Nor I attack'd nor you betray'd,
Let chance then bear the blame!
Oh pardon me, and I'll confess,
That henceforth when I gaze
Upon the beauties of thy face,
My fancy elsewhere strays!
Then if a reddy conscious blush,
Thy angel forehead warms;
Upon our souls the hour shall rush.
That shew'd thy inmost charms.
When John Scott was minister of Dundee, he reproved Alick Anderson for ill-treating his wife; Alick tried to justify his conduct, but the minister observed, "Ou Alick mon, there must be something wrong on both sides!"
"True very true," cried Alick, "she has neither bubbies nor buttocks!"
There was a young lady of Harwich,
Who said on the morn of her marriage:
"I shall sew my chemise,
Right down to my knees,
For I'm damned if I fuck in the carriage!"