Then cocker Wully lap bawk heet,
And in his clogs top teyme did beat:
But Tamer, in her stockin feet,

She bang'd him out and out,

And lilted-Whurry whum, &c.

Now aw began to talk at yence,

O' naigs and kye, and wots and rye,
And laugh'd and jwok'd and cough'd and smuik'd,
And meade a fearfu' reek;

The form it brack, and down they fell,
Lang Isaac leam'd auld granny Bell;
They up and drank het sugar'd yell,
Till monie cudn't speak,

But some sang-Whurry whum, &c.

The breyde she kest up her accounts
In Rachel's lap, then pou'd her cap;
The parson's wig stuid aw ajy;

The clerk sang "Andrew Carr ;”
Blin' Stagg, the fiddler, gat a whack,
The bacon fleek fell on his back,
And neist his fiddle-stick they brack,
"Twas weel he was nea waur,

For he sang-Whurry whum, &c.

Now on the midden some were laid,
Aw havey skavey, and kelavey;
The clogger and the teaylor fought,
Peer Snip gat twea black een :

Dick Wawby he began the fray,

But Jemmy Moffat ran away,

And crap owre head amang the hay,
Fwok say nit varra clean;

Then they sang-Whurry whum, &c.

Neist Windy Wull, o' Wample seyde,
He bang'd them aw, beath girt and sma';
He flang them east, he flang them west,
And bluidy pates they gat;

To him they were but caff and san';

He split the teable wi' his han',

But in the dust wi' dancin Dan,

They burnt his Sunday hat;

Then aw sang-Whurry whum, &c.

The breyde now thought it time for bed;
Her stocking doff'd, and flang 't quite soft-
It hit Bess Bleane-Wull Webster blush'd,

And luik'd anudder way :

The lads down frae the loft did steal;
The parish howdey, Greacy Peel,

She happ'd her up, aw wish'd her weel;
Then hop'd to meet neist day,

And sing her-Whurry whum, &c.

The best on't was, the parson swore
His wig was lost, a crown it cost,
He belsh'd and hiccupp'd, in and out,
And said it wasn't fair:

Now day-leet it began to peep,
The breydegroom off to bed did creep,
I trow he waddn't mickle sleep,

But-whisht! I'll say nea mair,

Nobbet sing-Whurry whum, whuddle whum,

Whulty, whalty, wha wha-wha,

And derry dum, diddle dum,
Derry eyden dee.

SALLY GRAY.

AIR: "The mucking o' Geordie's byre."

Come, Deavie, I'll tell thee a secret,
But tou mun lock't up i' thee breast,
I wadden't for aw Dalston parish
It com to the ears o' the rest ;
Now I'll hod tee a bit of a weager,
A groat to thy tuppens I'll lay,
Tou cannot guess whea I's in luive wi',
And nobbet keep off Sally Gray.

There's Cumwhitton, Cumwhinton, Cumranton,

Cumrangen, Cumrew, and Cumcatch, And mony mair "cums" i' the county,

But nin wi' Cumdivock can match;

It's sae neyce to luik owre the black pasture,
Wi' the fells abuin aw, far away—

There is nea sec pleace, nit in England,
For there lives the sweet Sally Gray!

I was sebenteen last Collop-Monday,
And she's just the varra seame age ;
For ae kiss o' the sweet lips o' Sally,
I'd freely give up a year's wage;
For in lang winter neets when she's spinnin,
And singin about Jemmy Gay,

I keek by the hay-stack, and lissen,
For fain wad I see Sally Gray.

Had tou seen her at kurk, man, last Sunday, Tou cudn't hae thought o' the text;

But she sat neist to Tom o' the Lonnin,

Tou may think that meade me quite vext;
Then I pass'd her gaun owre the lang meadow,
Says I, "Here's a canny wet day!"
I wad hae said mair, but how cou'd I,
When luikin at sweet Sally Gray!

I caw'd to sup cruds wi' Dick Miller,
And hear aw his cracks and his jwokes;
The dumb weyfe was tellin their fortunes,
What! I mud be like other fwoks!
Wi' chawk, on a pair of auld bellows,
Twea letters she meade in her way—

S means Sally, the wide warl' owre,
And G stands for nought else but Gray.

O was I but lword o' the manor,

A nabob, or parliament man,

What thousands on thousands I'd gie her,
Wad she nobbet gie me her han'!

A cwoach and six horses I'd buy her,
And gar fwok stan out o' the way,
Then I'd loup up behint leyke a footman—
Oh! the warl' for my sweet Sally Gray!

They may brag o' their feyne Carel lasses
Their feathers, their durtment, and leace;
God help them! peer death-luikin bodies,
Widout a bit reed i' their feace!
But Sally's just leyke allyblaster,

Her cheeks are twea rwose-buds in May-
O lad! I cou'd sit here for ever,
And talk about sweet Sally Gray.

WILL AND KATE.

AIR: "John Anderson my jo."

Now, Kate, full forty years hae flown,
Sin we met on the green ;

Frae that to this the saut, saut tear
Has oft stuid i' my een:

For when the bairns were some peet-heet,
Tou kens I leam'd my knee-

Lal toddlen things, in want o' bread-
O that went hard wi' me.

Then tou wad cry, "Come, Wully, lad,

Keep up thy heart-ne'er fear!

Our bits o' bairns 'll scraffle up,

Sae dry that sworry tear :