Our Tib at the cwose-house has been,
She tells us they're monstrous murry ;
At Carel the brig's tummel'd down,

And they tek the fwok owre on a whurry.
The muin was at full this neet week ;
The weather is turn'd monstrous daggy;
I' th' loft, just at seven last neet,

Lal Stephen sweethearted lang Aggy: There'll be bonny wark bye and bye,

The truth 'ill be out, there's nea fear on't, But I niver say nought, nay, nit I,

For fear hawf the parish sud hear on't. Aunt Meable has lost her best sark,

And Cleutie is bleam'd varra mickle; Nought's seafe out o' doors now-a-days,

Frae a millstone, e'en down to a sickle;
The clock it strikes eight, I mun heame,
Or I's git a deuce of a fratchin;

When neist we've a few hours to spare,
We'll fin' out what mischief's a-hatchin.

THE BUNDLE OF ODDITIES.
AIR: "Fie, let us a' to the bridal."

Sit down, and I'll count owre my sweethearts,
For, faith, a brave number I've had,

Sin I furst went to schuil wi' Dick Railton, But Dick's in his grave, honest lad!

I mind when he cross'd the deep watter,
To get me the shilapple's nest,
How he fell owrehead, and I skirl'd sae,
Then off we ran heame, sair distrest.

Then there was a bit of a teaylear,

That work'd at our house a heale week, He was shap'd aw the warl' like a trippet, But niver a word durst he speak ;

I just think I see how he squinted

At me, when we sat down to meat; Owre went his het keale on his blue breeks, And deil a bit Snippy could eat.

At partin' he poud up his spirits,

Says he, "Tou hes bodder'd my head, And it sheks yen to rags and to tatters, To sew wi' a lang double thread;" Then, in meakin' a cwoat for my fadder, (How luive does the senses deceive!) Forby usin' marrowless buttons,

To th' pocket hole he stitch'd a sleeve.

The neist was a Quaker, caw'd Jacob,
He turn'd up the wheyte o' his een
And talk'd about flesh and the spirit-
Thought I, what can Gravity mean?
In dark winter neets, i' the lonnins,
He'd weade thro' the durt 'buin his knee,
It cuil'd his het heart, silly gander !
And there let him stowter for me.

A lang blue-lipt chap, like a guide-post,
(Lord help us and keep us frae harm!)
Neist talk't about car-gear and middens,

And the reet way to manage a farm ; 'Twas last Leady Fair I leet on him,

He grummell'd and spent hawf-a-crown— God bless him! hed he gowd i' gowpens, I wadn't hae hed sec a clown.

But stop! there was lal wee deef Dicky,
Wad dance for a heale winter neet,
And at me aw the time wad keep glowrin'—
Peer man, he was nobbet hawf reet !
He grew jealous o' reed-headed Ellek,
Wi' a feace like a full harvest muin ;
Sae they fit till they'd just gat eneugh on't,
And I laugh'd at beath when 'twas duin.

There's anudder worth aw put together,
I could, if I wad, tell his neame;
He gangs past our house to the market,
And monie a time he's set me heame :
O wad he but ask me this question-
"Will tou be my partner for life?"
I'd answer without any blushes,
And aye try to mek a guid wife.

DICK WATTERS.

AIR: "Crowdy."

O, Jenny! Jenny! where's tou been?
Thy fadder is just mad at tee;
He seed somebody i' the croft,
And gulders as he'd worry me.
O monie are a mudder's hopes,
And monie are a mudder's fears,
And monie a bitter, bitter pang,

Beath suin and leate her bosom tears!

We brong thee up, put thee to schuil,

fwok can;

And clead thee weel as peer We larn'd thee beath to dance and read,

But now tou's crazy for a man.

O monie are, &c.

When tou was young, and at my knee,
I dwoated on thee, day and neet;
But now tou's rakin', rakin' still,

And niver, niver i' my seet.

O monie are, &c.

Tou's proud, and past aw guid adveyceYen mud as weel speak till a stean;

Still, still thy awn way, reet or wrang― Mess, but tou'll rue't when I am geane! O monie are, &c.

Dick Watters, I hae tel't thee oft,
Ne'er means to be a son o' mine;
He seeks thy ruin, sure as deeth,
Then like Bet Baxter tou may whine.
O monie are, &c.

Thy fadder's comin' frae the croft,
A bonny hunsup, faith, he'll mek;

Put on thy clogs and auld blue brat—
Heaste, Jenny! heaste! he lifts the sneck!
O monie are, &c.

THE LASS ABUIN THIRTY.

AIR: "Jockey's Grey Breeks."

I've wonder'd sin I kent mysel,

What keeps the men-fwok aw frae me;

I's as guid-like as cousin Tib,

And she can hae her choice o' three: For me, still moilin by mysel,

Life's just a bitter widout sweets;
The summer brings nea pleasant days,
And winter tires wi' lang, lang neets.

I had some whopes o' Wully yence,
And Wully was the only yen;
I dreamt and dreamt about him lang,

But whopes and Wully aw are geane :