Neist my deame she e'en starv'd me, that niver leev'd weel,

Her hard words and luiks wad hae freeten'd the deil.

She hed a lang beard, for aw t' warl leyke a billy gwoat, wi' a kill-dried frosty feace; and then the smawest leg o' mutton in aw Carel market sarrat the cat, me, and her, for a week. The bairns meade sec game on us, and thunder'd at the rapper, as if to waken a corp; when I open'd the duir, they threw stour i' my een, and caw'd me daft Watty:

Sae I pack'd up my duds when my quarter was out, And, wi' weage i' my pocket, I saunter'd about.

Suin my reet-hand breek pocket they pick'd in a fray, And wi' fifteen wheyte shillings they slipt clean away, Forby my twea letters frae mudder and Nan, Where they said Carel lasses wad Watty trepan: But 'twad tek a lang day just to tell what I saw— How I skeap'd frae the gallows, the sowdgers and aw.

Ay! there were some forgery chaps bad me just sign my neame. "Nay," says I, "you've gotten a wrang pig by the lug, for I canno write !" Then a fellow like a lobster, aw leac'd and feather'd, ax'd me, "Watty, wull te list? thou's owther be a general or a gomoral."-"Nay, I wunnetthat's plain: I's content wi' a cwoat o' mudder's spinnin."

Now, wi' twea groats and tuppence, I'll e'en toddle heame,

But ne'er be a sowdger wheyle Watty's my neame.

How my mudder 'll gowl, and my fadder 'll stare, When I tell them peer Cwoley they'll never see mair, Then they'll bring me a stuil; as for Nan, she'll be fain,

When I kiss her, God bless her, agean and agean!

The barn and the byre, and the auld hollow tree, Will just seem like cronies yen's fidging to see.

The sheep 'll nit ken Watty's voice now. The peat-stack we used to lake roun 'll be burnt ere this! As for Nan, she'll be owther married or broken-hearted; but sud aw be weel at Croglin, we'll hae feastin, fiddlin, dancin, drinkin, singin, and smuikin, aye, till aw's blue about us :

Amang aw our neybors sec wonders I'll tell,
But niver mair leave my auld friends or the fell.

JENNY'S COMPLAINT.

AIR: "Nancy's to the greenwood gane."

O, Lass! I've fearfu' news to tell!
What thinks te's come owre Jemmy?
The sowdgers hev e'en pick'd him up,
And sent him far, far frae me :
To Carel he set off wi' wheat;

Them ill reed-cwoated fellows

Suin wil'd him in-then meade him drunk:
He'd better geane to th' gallows.

The varra seet o' his cockade

It set us aw a crying;

For me, I fairly fainted tweyce,

Tou may think that was tryin;
My fadder wad hae paid the smart,
And show'd a gowden guinea,
But, lack-a-day! he'd kiss'd the buik,
And that 'll e'en kill Jenny.

When Nichol tells about the wars,

It's waur than death to hear him; I oft steal out, to hide my tears, And cannot, cannot bear him; For aye he jeybes, and cracks his jwokes, And bids me nit forseake him;

A brigadier, or grenadier,

He says they're sure to meake him.

If owre the stibble fields I gang,
I think I see him ploughin,

And ev'ry bit o' bread I eat,

It seems o' Jemmy's sowing:
He led the varra cwoals we burn,
And when the fire I's leetin,
To think the peats were in his hands,
It sets my heart a beatin.

What can I de? I nought can de,

But whinge and think about him: For three lang years he follow'd me, Now I mun live widout him! Brek heart, at yence, and then it's owre! Life's nought widout yen's dearie, I'll suin lig in my cauld, cauld grave,

For, oh! of life I'm weary!

MATTHEW MACREE.

[AIR: "The wee pickle tow."-Anderson composed this song on a fine summer day in 1803, whilst seated under an apple-tree in the Springfield bowling green, Carlisle.]

Sin I furst work'd a sampleth at Biddy Forsyth's,
I ne'er saw the marrow o' Matthew Macree;
For down his braid back hing his lang yellow locks,
And he hes a cast wi' his bonny grey e'e:

Then he meks us aw laugh, on the stuil when he stands,

And acts like the players, and gangs wi' his hands, And talks sec hard words as nit yen understands— O, what a top scholar is Matthew Macree !

'Twas nobbet last Easter his cock wan the main, I stuid i' the ring rejoicin to see ;

The bairns they aw shouted, the lasses were fain, And the lads o' their shoulders bore Matthew

Macree :

Then at lowpin he'll gang a full yard owre them aw, And at rustlin, whilk o' them dare try him a faw? And whee is't that aye carries off the foot-baw?

But the king of aw Cumberland, Matthew Macree.

That time when he fought full two hours at the fair, And lang Jemmy Smith gat a famish black e'e; Peer Jemmy I yence thought wad niver paw mair, And I was reet sworry for Matthew Macree :

Then he wad shek the bull-ring, and brag the heale

town,

And to feight, rin, or russle, he put down a crown; Saint Gworge, the girt champion, o' fame and renown, Was nobbet a waffler to Matthew Macree.

On Sundays, in bonny wheyte weastcwoat when dress'd,

He sings i' the kurk, what a topper is he! I hear his strang voice far abuin aw the rest,

And my heart still beats time to Matthew Macree. Then his feyne eight-page ditties, and garlands sae

sweet,

They mek us aw merry the lang winter neet,
But, when he's nit amang us, we niver seem reet,
Sae fond are the lasses o' Matthew Macree.

My fadder he left me a house on the hill,
And I's get a bit lan sud my aunty dee,
Then I'll wed bonny Matthew whenever he will,
For gear is but trash widout Matthew Macree:
We'll try to show girt fwok content in a cot,
And when in our last heame together we've got,
May our bairns and their neybors oft point to the
spot

Where lig honest Matthew and Jenny Macree.