%ISOlat1; %ISOlat2; %ISOnum; %ISOpub; ]> A / BLOCK for ALLAN RAMSAY'S WIGS, / Or, the Famous POET, fall'n in a Sleep University of California - Santa Barbara The Early Modern Center English Broadside Ballad Archive (EBBA) Director Patricia Fumerton Associate Director Carl G Stahmer 1720-1720 Early Modern Center, University of California Santa Barbara Santa Barbara, CA 07/15/2014 34346

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Patricia Fumerton Early Modern Center - English Department University of California Santa Barbara, CA 93105 United States of America EMail: pfumer@english.ucsb.edu

T190081 VOW Allie, what's come ore ye now; / Fain wa'd we hear some News frae you; Information in this section of the Source Description refers to the original ballad manuscript. 1: 115 A / BLOCK for ALLAN RAMSAY'S WIGS, / Or, the Famous POET, fall'n in a Sleep A BLOCK for ALLAN RAMSAY'S WIGS, Or, the Famous POET, fall'n in a Sleep A BLOCK for ALLAN RAMSAY'S WIGS, Or, the Famous POET, fallen in a Sleep 1720-1720

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 Early Modern Center Ballad Project Keyword Taxonomy advice affliction/ health alcohol Americas animals/ nature Bible/ biblical figures buildings/ architecture catastrophe children class clothing/ appearance country/ nation crime death economics/ commerce entertainments family Featured folklore gender holidays/ seasons infidelity labor/ craft law London love maritime marriage military/ war monstrosity mythology/ Classical news nobility/ court politics/ government procreation punishment race/ ethnicity religious concepts religious figures religious groups royalty rural life servitude sex/ sexuality supernatural/ magic travel trickery/ deceit urban life vice violence virtue vulgar humor youth/ age Library of Congress Subject Heading Taxonomy 7/15/2014 Santa Barbara, California, United States of America entertainments labor/ craft rural life Ballads, English 17th century Broadsides, England 17th century 7/15/2014 4:26:14 PM XBallad Bell, Erik Created XML Version of Ballad 7/15/2014 4:26:14 PM Transcription Supervisor Meyer, Shannon Transcription of ballad manuscript 7/15/2014 4:26:14 PM Double-Key Comparison and Merging McCants, Kristen Transcription of ballad manuscript 7/15/2014 4:26:14 PM Transcriptionist Two White, Sedella Transcription of ballad manuscript 7/15/2014 4:26:14 PM Transcriptionist One Choate, Katie Transcription of ballad manuscript 4/29/2014 Checker Nicole Dib Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 1/27/2014 Checker Tom Doran Edited Ballad Catalogue Record 1/16/2013 Bibliographer Shannon Meyer Initial Ballad Catalogue Record Created
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VOW Allie, what's come ore ye now; Fain wa'd we hear some News frae you; Some say ye'r Dead, but that's no True; gin ye sit Dumb, A Fig for a the canting Crew, they may sing Mum. Thou Thatch't our Noddles wi' thy Wigs, An' pleas't them wi' thy Wanton Jigs; I'm sure 'twad gar't an rin ten Ligs, to hear thy Jo[?] Bare hov'd thro' Briers an Thorny Sprigs, an ragged Rocks. But now we'r grown unco Scarce, Of Horse tail Wigs and Dogrell Verse, Patch't of Arabik Welsh an' Ears; some lang some short, For ye have flung beath at your A---s an' weas me fort. Yet some alledge on thee in Jock, Ye stack like Birky to the Block; But sorrow shoot them thro' the Dock, that ca' ye Dull, Shame ane I ken, but ye can Mock, for a thin Scull. Tho' nane e're heard you Scald or Banter, Yet some alledge th'us a great Vanter; Weel cu'd your Muse tune her awn Chanter. beath bald an' fierce, Fling up her tail a fa' to Ranter, Kilbarcan Verse. Dull do we sit, now just like Sots An' seldom meet to take our Pots; But bienly did we Drink our Groats, to hear thy Rimes, So weel we lyk't thy Auld Broad Scots, an' wanton Lines. We Laugh't to hear the Drols that past, Twice the and Willie i'the Wast; The Soger gae thy Muse a blast, made her so fain, Some think her Judgment got a cast, that Crack't her Brain. Tho' he's well kend to be ne Botcher, Yet others think ye dang the Soger; Exampli gratia, Pet an' Rodger, thy Master Swatch, Nae mair he will presume I Wadger, wi' thee to Match. But now thy Force to Counterballace, He has consulted, William Wallace; By Jove I think, sick Jollie Fallows, ner'e Drew a Pen. Or may I hing on Hamons Gallows, then tilt again. Put sick an Edge, as thou was wont on; I'm sure, that never was a blunt on: Make every hollow Rock, and Mounton; repeat thy Sangs. Which since, thou Drank the sacred Fountan, thy Fancy thrangs. Cu'd e're Baltrees, for a the Brags; Or wanton Willie waslan' Wags, So tightly Tune up Habbies Bags, say what they pleas, Or aff our auld Sangs Rive the Rags, gi' them bra Cleas.
Thy Lines were Canty, quick and Smert; Gar't ay Fo'ke Laugh, and Chear't their Heart Wha hes a Guinea, an' can spairt, by hook or crook But gladly wi' it will he pairt, to buy thy Book Nane can thy Verses cast a blot on, For Halt or Lame, i'm sure ther's not on; So soft an' sweetly do they Trot on, wi' sick a Grace, Ey when we Read, wee'r forst to dot on, thy Bony Face. Dear Ramsay sit nae langer still, Rouse up thy Muse, and draw thy Quill; Su'd ye gi' P------k his Will, to gab an' Chaff. Lilt up the Lass o' Peties Mill, an Clear 'im aff. Thou nere wast Saucy Sour or Shanty, Ay very Droll and never Taunty, But unco Jollie Blyth an' Canty; just to our Mind, Thy Maik I'm sure, mo'other Twenty ye wino' find. Thy Lines did Auld Wives Hearts Inhance, Jump't just wi' good auld Ignorance; Thy Jigs gart them get up and Dance, as they'd ben Daft. Yev'e lost your Tune, shame fa the Chance, thats dung ye af't. Thy Innocent and Wanton Flights, Still past awa the Winter Nights, But Cherilus the Ladies Frights, Wi's Baudy tauk, Chear up an' Charge him at the Rights, an' gar'im Quake. Ye'l gare Fo'k true hes dung ye out'o't, Then tilt an' take another bout o't; Gi' the Baboun a cliver Clout o't, wi' unco Pith, Weell can ye do'd, ye need not dou't o't, he'l soon gea with. When Country Lasses met in Flocks, About the Fire to spin their Rocks; They a' teld Round thy Merry Jocks Mony a Night, An' tov'd an' sang till a the Cocks, Crew fair Day Light. To hear thy sweet kind canty Words, Auld Lucky Leugh an' a' the Herds, At ilka gaff she gart the Girds, fly free her Bung, Wee a' spoke sae co' she my Birds, when I was Young. Ye spake in sick a Cuthy Leed, without er'e spelling they cu'd Reed, An' got thy Lines by Heart indeed, an' keep't them there, Better nor Pater-noster Creed, or Common Prayer. A' thy bescatred Sences Ralzie, An' frae Parnassus make a Salzie; Weev'e seen the Day, ye Sang fu' Brallie, Pitkethly Well. Then up we'd ance mair Allie Allie, bra Bessie B.
FINIS.