The parson swears a bonnie stick

Amang our sackless asses;

The 'squire's ruin'd scwores and scwores
O' canny country lasses.

There's twenty mair, coarse as neck-beef,
If yen hed time to neame them;
Left-handed Sim, slape-finger'd Sam,
Nae law cou'd ever teame them;
There's blue-nebb'd Watt, and ewe-chinn'd Dick,
Weel worthy o' the gallows-

O happy is the country seyde

That's free frae sec like fellows!

GWORDIE GILL.

AIR: "Andrew wi' his cutty gun."

Of aw the lads I see or ken,

There's yen I like abuin the rest; He's nicer in his war-day duds,

Than others donn'd in aw their best.

A body's heart's a body's awn,

And they may gie't to whea they will; Had I got ten where I hae neane,

I'd gie them aw to Gwordie Gill.

Whea was't that brack our landlword's garth
For me, when bairns we went to schuil?
Whea was't durst venture mid-thie deep,
To get my clog out o' the puil?

And when the filly flang me off,

And lang and lang I laid sae ill,

Whea was't gowl'd owre me day and neet, And wish'd me weel? 'Twas Gwordie Gill.

Oft mounted on his lang-tail'd naig,

Wi' fine new buits up till his knee,
The laird's daft son leets i' the faul,
And keaves as he wad wurry me ;
Tho' fadder, mudder, uncle tui,

To wed this maz'lin teaze me still,
I hear of aw his land and brass,

But oft steal out to Gwordie Gill.

Frae Carel cousin Fanny com,

And brong her whey-feac'd sweetheart down, Wi' sark-neck stuck abuin his lugs,

A peer clipt dinment frae the town:

He minc'd and talk'd, and skipp'd and walk'd,
But tir'd a-gangin up the hill,
And luik'd as pale as onie corp,
Compar'd to rwosie Gwordie Gill.
My Gwordie's whussle weel I ken,
Lang ere we meet, the darkest neet;
And when he lilts and sings "Skewball,"
Nit playhouse music's hawf sae sweet.
A body's heart's a body's awn,

And they may gie't to whea they will;
I yence had yen, now I hae neane,

For it belangs to Gwordie Gill.

February, 1804.

A WEYFE FOR WULLY MILLER.

AIR: "Maggie Lauder."

Hout, Wully, lad! cock up thy head,

Nor fash thysel about her;

Nought comes o' nought, sae tek nae thought,
Tou's better far widout her.

Peer man! her fadder weel we ken,
He's but an ass-buird meaker;
But she's town-bred, and, silly gowk,
Thou'd gie thy teeth to teake her.

I've seen thee flyre and jwoke like mad,
At aw our country fellows;

But now thou seeghs and luiks like death,
Or yen gawn to the gallows;

Thou's sous'd owre head and ears i' luive

He

Nay, nobbet luik at cwoley!

wags his tail, as if to say,

"Wey, what's the matter, Wully?"

There's lads but few in our town,
And lasses, wanters, plenty,
And he that fain wad wed a weyfe
May weale yen out o' twenty!-
There's Tamer Toppin, Aggy Sharp,
And clogger Wilkin's Tibby :-
There's Greacy Gurvin, Matty Meer,
And thingumbob's lal Debby:

Then there's Wully Guffy's dowter Nan

At thee aye keeks and glances,
For tou's the apple o' her e'en
At cairdin neets and dances;
My titty, tui, ae neet asleep,

Cried, "Canny Wully Miller!"
I poud her hair, she blush'd rwose reed,
Sae gang thy ways e'en till her.

Tell mudder aw the news tou kens;
To fadder talk o' the weather;
Then lilt tem up a sang or twea,
To please tem aw together;

She'll set thee out, then speak thy mind—
She'll suit thee till a shavin;

But town-bred deames, to sec as we,
Are seldom worth the havin.

BURGH RACES.

[The races celebrated in this ballad took place on the 3rd of May, 1804, at Burgh, a village in the neighbourhood of Carlisle, where our warlike Edward died on an expedition that was to decide the fate of Scotland.--SANDERSON.]

O Wully! had tou nobbet been at Burgh Races! It seem'd, lad, as if aw the warl were met; Some went to be seen, others off for divarsion, And monie went there a lock money to bet;

There was "How fens te, Tommy?"-What, Jwosep!

I's gaily :

Wey, is there out unket i' your country seyde? Here, landlword! a noggin!"-"Whea rides the Collector?"

"What, Meason's auld meer can bang aw far and weyde!"

Ere they saddl'd, the gamblers peep'd sair at the horses;

Sec scrudgin, the fwok were just ready to brust; Wi' swearin and bettin they meade a sad hay-bay: "I'll lig six to four!"-"Done! come, down wi'

the dust!"

"What think ye o' Lawson ?"- "The field for a guinea!"

"I'll mention the winner! dare onie yen lay ?" Jwohn Blaylock's reed handkitcher wav'd at the

dissnens :

At startin he cried, "Yen, twee, three, put away!"

They went off like leetnin-the auld meer's a topper

She flew like an arrow, and shew'd tem her tail: They hugg'd, whupp'd, and spurr'd, but cou'd niver yence touch her—

The winners they rear'd, and the lwosers turn'd pale;