Text by Allan Ramsay | Music (probably) by Lorenzo Bocci

Program notes at bitly.com/BBEGentleShepherd

Lyrics borrowed from http://www.scotstext.org/

The Gentle Shepherd

Sang I (Tune of The waukin o the fauld)

My Peggy is a young thing, Juist entered in her teens,
Fair as the day an sweet as Mey, Fair as the day an always gay.
My Peggy is a young thing, An I'm nae very auld,
Yet weel I like to meet her at The waukin o the fauld.
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, Whene'er we meet alane,
I wish nae mair to lay my care,- I wish nae mair o a' that's rare.
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly, To a' the lave I'm cauld,
But she gars a' my spirits glow, At waukin o the fauld.

My Peggy smiles sae kindly, Whene'er I whisper love,
That I leuk doun on a' the toun,- That I leuk doun upon a croun.
My Peggy smiles sae kindly, It maks me blythe an bauld,
An naething gies me sic delyte, As waukin o the fauld.
My Peggy sings sae saftly, When on my pipe I play,
By a' the rest it is confest- By a' the rest that she sings best.
My Peggy sings sae saftly, An in her sangs are tauld,
Wi innocence, the wale o sense, At waukin o the fauld.

Sang II (Tune of Fy! gar rub her ower wi strae)

Dear Roger, If yer Jenny geck, An answer kindness wi a slicht,
Seem unconcerned at her neglect, For weemen in a man delyte.
But them despise wha're suin defeat, An wi a simple face gie wey
To a repulse-then be nae blate, Push bauldly on, an win the day.

When maidens, innocently young, Say aften what they never mean,
Ne'er mind their pretty lyin tongue, But tent the language o their een:
If these agree, an she persist To answer a' yer love wi hate,
Seek elsewhere to be better blest, An let her sich when it's too late.

Sang III (Tune of Polwart on the Green)

The dorty will repent, If lovers' herts growe cauld;
An nane her smiles will tent, Suin as her face leuks auld.
The dawted bairn thus taks the pet, Nor eats tho hunger crave;
Whimpers an tarrows at its meat, An's lauched at by the lave.
They jest it till the denner's past; Thus by itsel abuised,
The fuil thing is obliged to fast, Or eat what they've refuised.

Sang VI (Tune of Nancy's to the greenwud gane)

I yield, dear lassie, ye hae won; An there is nae denyin,
That shuir as licht flows frae the sun. Frae love proceeds complyin.
For a' that we can do or say, 'gainst love, nae thinker heeds us,
They ken oor bosoms ludge the fae That by the hert-strings leads us.

Sang X (Tune of The yellow-haired laddie)

When first my dear laddie gaed to the green hill,
An I at yowe-milkin first sayed my young skill,
To bear the milk-bowie nae pain was to me,
When I at the buchtin foregaithered wi thee.

When corn-riggs waved yellow, an blue heather-bells
Bloomed bonny on muirland an sweet risin fells,
Nae birns, briers, or breckans, gae trouble to me,
Gif I found the berries richt ripened for thee.

When thoo ran, or wrestled, or putted the stane,
An cam aff the victor, my hert was aye fain;
Thy ilka sport, manly, gae pleasure to me,
For nane can putt, wrestle, or run swift as thee.

Sang XII (Tune of Happy Clown)

Hid frae himsel, nou by the dawn He starts as fresh as roses blawn;
An ranges ower the hichts an lawn, Efter his bleatin flocks.
Healthfu an innocently gay, He chants an whistles oot the day;
Untocht to smile, an then betray Like coortly weather cocks.

Life happy, frae ambition free, Envy, an vile hypocrisy,
Where truith an love wi joys agree, Unsullied wi a crime.
Unmoved wi what disturbs the great. In proppin o their pride an state,
He lives, an, unafraid o fate, Contented spends his time.

SANG XVII (Tune of Kirk wad let me be)

Duty an pairt o reason Plead strang on the parent's side,
Which love superior ca's treason; The strongest must be obeyed.
For nou, tho I'm ane o the gentry, My constancy fauseheid repels;
For change in my hert haes no entry- Still there my dear Peggy excels.

Sang XXI (Tune of Bonny Grey-ee'd Morn)

The bonny grey-ee'd morn begins to peep, An darkness flees before the risin ray,
The herty hynd starts frae his lazy sleep, To follow healthfu labours o the day;
I thoot a guilty sting to wrinkle his brou, The lark an the linnet 'tend his levee,
An he joins their concert drivin his plou, Frae toil o grimace an pageantry free.

While flustered wi wine, or maddened wi loss O hauf an estate, the prey o a main,
The drunkard an gamester tumble an toss, Wishin for calmness an slumber in vain.
Be my portion health an quietness o mind, Placed at a due distance frae parties an state,
Where naither ambition nor avarice blinnd, Reach him wha haes happiness linked to his fate.
 

Calliope, or English Harmony

Program notes at bitly.com/BBECalliope

My Jolly Companion, Anonymous

My jolly Companion, thou hast a good Face,
Thy Pimples are glorious, and add to thy Grace;
Proclaim thee a merry brave Rattle in Drink;
Not one of those Fools who've Leisure to think.
To Bacchus our Master let’s fill up the Bowl,
For He’s the Director of each quaffing Soul;
Commands the brave Tiplers, and governs the Vine,
His Influence only can make our Fronts shine.
Then booze away, Topers, your Glasses turn down,
He that tipples the most our Prince we will crown.

The Pleasures of Life, A new song Sung by Mr. Moore at Sadlei’s Wells

Save Women and Wine, there is nothing in Life,
That can bribe honest Souls to endure it:
When the Heart is perplex’d, and surrounded with Care,
Dear Women and Wine only cure it.

Come on then my Boys, we’ll have Women and Wine,
And wisely to purpose employ them;
He’s a Fool that refuses such Blessings divine,
Whilst Vigour and Health can enjoy them,
As Women and Wine, dear Women and Wine,
Whilst Vigour and Health can enjoy them.

Our Wine shall be old, bright, and sound my dear Jack,
To heighten our amorous Fires,
Our Girls young and sound, and shall kiss with a Smack,
And shall gratify all our Desires;
The Bottles we’ll crack, and the Girls we will smack,
And gratify all our Desires.

The Praise of Bacchus, The Musick by Mr. Correlli

Bacchus, assist us to sing thy great glory; chief of the Gods, we exult in thy story.
Wine's first projector, mankind's protector, patron to topers, how we do adore thee!

Friend to the muses, a whetstone to Venus; herald to pleasures, when wine wou'd convene us,
sorrow's physician, when our condition, in wordly cares wants a cordial to skreen us.

Nature she smil'd when thy birth it was blazed; mankind rejoyc'd when thy altars were raised;
mirth will be flowing, whilst the vine's growing, and sober souls at our joys be amazed.

The Happy Toper, Set to Musick by Mr. Lulman

WIll you credit a Miser, 'tis Gold makes us Wise,
The bliss of his life, and the joy of his eyes;
And ask a fond lover where Wisdom he places,
to be sure in his Mistress, her Charms and her Graces;
But let the free lad speak the joy of his soul;
‘tis a sparkling glass and a smiling full Bowl.

The Miser is wretched unhappy and poor;
He suffers great Want in the midst of fullstore.
The lover's disconsolate, mopish, and sad,
For that which when gained will soon make him mad.
The Miser's a fool and the Lover's an Ass,
And he’s only is Wise who adores the full glass.

Let the Miser then hug up his ill-gotten self,
And, to feed empty bags may he starve his own self;
Let the lover still languish 'twixt Hope and Despair,
And doat on a face, as inconstant as fair;
But still may his Bliss be as great as his Soul,
Who pays no Devoir but to Wine and the Bowl.

The Pow’r of Drinking, set by Mr. Monro

Since Drinking has Pow’r for to give us Relief,
Come fill up the Bowl, and a Pox on all Grief.
If we find that won’t do, we’ll have such another,
And so we’ll proceed from one Bowl to the other,
Till, like Sons of Apollo, we’ll make out Wit soar,
Or, in Homage to Bacchus, fall down on the Floor.

Apollo and Bacchus were both merry Souls,
They each of them lov’d for to toss off their Bowls.
Then let’s try to shew ourselves Men or Merit,
By toasting those Gods in a Bowl of Good Claret.
And then we shall all be deserving of Praise:
But the Man that drinks most shall go off with the Bays.

Address to a Bottle, by Mr. Say

Couldst thou give me a Pleasure, Like the Mistress of my Heart,
I’d drink beyond all Measure, And from thee never start.
A Pleasure so alluring, I never could refrain,
Till Life not worth enduring, In a Tun I’d drown my Pain.

But since there’s no comparing With raptures she can give,
Whose Extasy (past bearing) I scarce can taste, and live.
To brighter Joys resigning, I’ll quit thy sparkling Charms,
And die without repining, To be bury’d in her Arms.

The Tipler’s Wish by Mr. Wight, set by Mr. Digard

O Greedy Midas I’ve been told, That what you touch’d, you turn’d to Gold:
O had I but a Pow’r like thine, I’d turn whate’er I touch to Wine.

Each purling Stream shou’d feel my Force; Each Fish my fatal Power mourn,
And wond’ring at the might Change, Shou’d in their native Regions burn.

Nor shou’d there any dare t’approach Unto my mantling, sparkling Shrine,
But first shou’d pay their Votes to me, And stile me only God of Wine.

The Thirsty Toper, Anonymous

If the Glasses they are empty, Fill again, my Soul’s adry:
Sure such Wine as this will tempt ye To carouse in Sympathy.
Thirsty Souls, like Planst aspiring, Moisture ever are desiring.
Thus caressing Nature’s Blessing, We’ll the sober World defy.


See the Bottle, how its Beauty SMikes in ev’ry ruby Face;
We to Bacchus owe a duty, Drink, brave Heroes, drink apace.
Cou’d the Glove be fill’d with Claret, Souls like mine wou’d never spare it;
Every drinking, Void of thinking, We’d the happy Hours embrace.

The Topers Sentence on a Sneaker, Anonymous

To the God of Wine, my Song and my design With a grateful spirit will I raise,
‘Tis my Heart’s delight to give him ev’ry Night, and to Carrol Merrily his Praise.
Monarch Bacchus gay and young Free to save us, and relieve us, when the World goes wrong,
Sound his Name, raise it high, sing his fame to the Sky till the wise World join in our Song.

Should a Mortal dare, His merry Subject sneer, Let hum dread the Fate decreed:
A new Law well weigh’d The drinking Court has made And to Justice thus they’ll proceed;
Set the Rebel to the Bar, That the Traytor, Bound in Fetter, May his Sentence hear;
Let the Rogue, In a String, Like a Dog, Take a Swing Or be drown’d in Rot-Gut Small-Beer.

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