7
She said the little god of love
Her tender bosom haunted,
Dear Sir, I almost blush to own,
But, Mr York you’re wanted.
In wedloc(illegible text) need not (illegible text),
Most h(illegible text), Sir,
And how (illegible text) how we fought,
Shall n (illegible text) told, Sir;
For Mr. D(illegible text) in one day,
And s(illegible text) he planted;
I wiped my ⟨eyes and⟩ thanked my (illegible text)
’Twas (illegible text) York he wanted.
So, ladies, pray now guard your hearts,
A secret ⟨will I⟩ tell, O;
A widower with half a plumb
Must needs be a rich fellow.
With fifty thousand pounds, I think
I ought not to be daunted,
Some lovely girl, I hope, ere long,
Will say, Sweet York, you’re wanted.
THE EMIGRANT’S FAREWELL.
TUNE—My Guid Lord Jo(illegible text).
Our native land———our native vale———
A long and last adieu!
Farewell to bonnie Tivotdale,
And Cheviot mountains blue
