There's Matt sal be an alderman ;

A bishop we'll mak Guy; Lal Ned sal be a clogger; and

Dick maun work for tee and I.

Then when our crops were spoil'd wi' rain,
Sir Jwohn mud hev his rent;
What cou'd we do? nea gear had we—

Sae I to jail was sent:

'Twas hard to starve i' sec a pleace,

Widout a frien' to trust;

But when I thought o' thee and bairns,
My heart was like to brust.

Neist Etty, God was pleas'd to tek,
What then, we'd seven still;
But whea kens what may happen?-suin
The sma'-pox did for Bill:

I think I see his slee-black een,

Then he wad chirm and talk,

And say, "Ded, ded; Mam, mam," and aw, Lang, lang ere he cou'd walk.

At Carel, when, for six pound ten,

I selt twea Scotty kye,

They pick'd my pocket i' the thrang,

And deil a plack had I;

"Ne'er ack!" says tou, "we'll work for mair,

It's time eneugh to fret;

A pun' o' sorrow wunnet pay

Ae single ounce o' debt."

Now, toddlen down the hill o' leyfe,
Auld age has brought content;
And, God be thank'd, our bairns are up,
And pay Sir Jwohn his rent:
When, seyde by seyde aw day we sit,
I often think and grieve,

It's hard that death sud part auld fwok,
When happy they can leeve.

THE IMPATIENT LASSIE.

[AIR: "Low down in the broom."-A copy of this song, slightly altered, is given in Whitelaw's Book of Scottish Songs, without any writer's name attached.]

Deuce tek the clock! click-clackin' sae,

Still in a body's ear;

It tells and tells the time is past,

When Jwohnie sud been here :

Deuce tek the wheel! 'twill nit rin roun'

Nae mair to-neet I'll spin,

But count each minute wi' a seegh,

Till Jwohnie he steals in.

How neyce the spunkey fire now burns,

For twea to sit beside!

And there's the seat where Jwohnie sits,

And I forget to chide!

My fadder, too, he snugly snores;

My mudder's fast asleep;

He promis'd oft; but, oh! I fear

His word he wunnet keep!

What can it be keeps him frae me?

The road is nit sae lang,

And sleet and snaw are nought at aw,

If fo'k were fain to gang!

Some ither lass, wi' bonnier face,

Has caught his wicked e'e,
And I'll be pointed at at kirk—
Nay! suiner let me dee!

O durst we lasses nobbet gang
And sweetheart them we like,
I'd rin to thee, my Jwohnie lad,
Nor stop at bog or dyke ;
But custom's sec a silly thing,
Men aye mun hae their way,
While mony a bonny lassie sits
And mourns frae day to day.

But, whisht! I hear my Jwohnie's fit-
Aye, that's his varra clog !

He steeks the fa'-yett softly too

O hang that cwoley dog!

Now, hey for seeghs and sugar'd words,

Wi' kisses nit a few—

O but this warl's a paradise,

When lovers they pruive true!

NICHOL THE NEWSMONGER.

AIR: "The night before Larry was stretch'd."
Come, Nichol, and gie us thy cracks

I seed tee gang down to the smiddy:
I've fodder'd the naigs and the nowt,
And wanted to see thee 'at did ee.
Ay, Andrew, lad! draw in a stuil,
And gie us a shek o' thy daddle;
I got aw the news far an nar,

Sae set off as fast's I could waddle.

In France they've but sworrofu' times,
For Bonnypart's nit as he sud be ;
America's nobbet sae sae;

And England nit quite as she mud be:
Sad wark there's amang blacks and wheytes,*
Sec tellin plain teales to their feaces,

Wi' murders, and wars, and aw that—
But, hod-I forget where the pleace is.

Our parson he gat drunk as muck,

Then ledder'd aw t' lads round about him; They say he is nobbet hawf reet,

And fwok mud as weel be widout him;
The yell's to be fourpence a quart—
Odswinge, lad, there will be rare drinking!

Billy Pitt's mad as onie March hare,
And niver was reet, fwok are thinking.

Alluding to the insurrection of the Blacks.

A weddin we'll hev or it's lang,

Wi' Bet Brag and lal Tom Tagwally;
Jack Bunton's far off to the sea—

It'll e'en be the death of our Sally;
The clogger has bought a new wig;
Dalston singers come here agean Sunday;
Lord Nelson's ta'en three Spanish fleets,
And the dancin schuil opens on Monday.

Carel badgers are monstrous sad fwok,
The silly peer deils how they ring up;
Lal bairns hae got pox frae the kye,*

And fact'ries, like mushrooms, they spring up; If they sud keep their feet for awhile, And government nobbet pruive civil, They'll build up as hee as the muin,

For Carel's a match for the deevil.

The king's meade a bit of a speech,
And gentlefwok say it's a topper;
An alderman deet tudder neet,

Efter eatin a turkey to supper;
Our squire's to be parliament man,

Mess, lad, but he'll keep them aw busy!
Whea thinks tee's come heame i' the cwoach,
Frae Lunnon, but grater-feac'd Lizzy.

The cock feights are ninth o' neist month,
I've twea, nit aw England can bang them;

In Ireland they're aw up in arms,

It's hop'd there's nea Frenchmen amang them;

* Cow Pox.