"I'd have monie thousands o' shippin',
To sail the wide warl aw about;
I'd say to my soldiers, 'Gang owre seas,

And kill the French dogs out and out!'
On our lang-tail'd naig I'd be mounted,
My footmen in silver and green;
And when I'd seen aw foreign countries,
I'd mek Aggy Glaister my queen.

"Our meadow sud be a girt worchet,

And grow nought at aw but big plums; A schuil-house we'd build-as for maister, We'd e'en hing him up by the thums. Joss Feddon sud be my head huntsman, We'd keep seeben couple o' dogs, And kill aw the hares i' the kingdom; My mudder sud wear weel-greas'd clogs.

"Then Cursmas sud last, ay for ever!

And Sundays we'd hae tweyce a week;
The muin sud show leet aw the winter;
Our cat and our cwoley sud speak:
The peer fwok sud leeve widout workin,
And feed on plum-puddin and beef;
Then aw wad be happy, for sarten,
There nowther cou'd be rwogue or thief."

Now thus run on leytle king Roger,
But suin aw his happiness fled;

A spark frae the fire brunt his knockle,
And off he crap whingin to bed:

Thus fares it wi' beath young and auld fwok,
Frae king to the beggar we see ;
Just cross us i' th' midst o' our greatness,
And peer wretched creatures are we!

THE PEET-SELLER'S LAMENT FOR HIS MARE.

AIR: "Hey tutty tatty."

My bonny, bonny black meer's dead!
The thought's e'en leyke to turn my head!
She lead the peets, and gat me bread;

But what will I dui now?

And she was bworn when Jwohn was bworn,
Just nineteen years last Thursday mworn;
Puir beast! had she got locks o' cworn,

She'd been alive I trow!

When young, just leyke a deil she ran ;
The cart-gear at Durdar she wan;

That day saw me a happy man—

Now tears gush frae my e'e:

For the meer's geane; and my wife's geane;
And Jwohn's a sodger far frae heame;

Wi' brokken spirits!-left my leane!

I've none to comfort me !

When wheyles I mounted on my yad,
I never rode leyke yen stark mad;
We toddl'd on, and beath were glad

To see our sonsie deame:
Our meer, the neighbours weel she knew ;
And aw the deyke-backs where grass grew;
And when she'd pang'd her belly fou,

How proudly she cam heame!

Nae pamper'd beast e'er heeded we;
Nae wind or weet e'er dreaded she;
I never cried "Wo-ah!" or "Jee!"

She kent-aye, ev'ry turn.

And wheyles I gat her teates o' hay,
And gave her watter twice-a-day:
But now she's dead! I'm wae to say;

Then how can I but mourn?

Frae Tindal-fell twelve pecks she'd bring-
She was a yad fit for a king!

I never struck her, silly thing!

'Twas hard we twea sud part!

I's auld, and feal'd, and ragg'd, and peer;

I cannot raise anither meer;

I cannot leeve anither year,

The loss will break my heart!

ELIZABETH'S BURTH-DAY.

AIR: "Lillibulero."

"Ay, Wulliam! neist Monday's Elizabeth's burthday!

She is a neyce lass, tho' she were nin o' mine. We mun ax the Miss Dowson's, and auld Brodie's young fwok:

I wish I'd but seav'd a swope geuseberry wine. She'll be sebenteen; what, she's got thro' her larnin; She dances as I did when first I kent thee.

As for Tom, her cruik'd billy, he stumps leyke a cwoach-horse;

We'll ne'er mek a man on him, aw we can dee."

"Hut, Jenny! hod tongue o' thee! praise nae sec varment,

She won't mend a sark, but reads novels, proud

brat !

She dance! what, she turns in her taes, thou peer

gonny,

Caw her Bet, 'twas the neame her auld granny

aye gat.

No, Tommy for my money! he reads his Bible,
And hes sec a lovingly squint wid his een;
He sheps as leyke me, as ae bean's leyke anudder;
She snurls up her neb, just a shem to be seen!"

"Shaff, Wully! that's fashion-tou kens nout about it; She's streight as a resh, and as reed as a rwose, She's sharp as a needle, and luiks leyke a leady; Thou talks, man- -a lass cannot meake her awn

nwose!

She's delicate meade, and nit fit for the country; For Tom, he's knock-knee'd, wi' twea girt ass-buird feet; [brag on; God help them he sheps leyke! they've little to Tho' ours, I've oft thought he was nit varra reet."

"O, Jen! thou's run mad wi' thy gossips and trumpery: Our lal bit o' lan' we maun sell, I declare; I yence thought thee an angel,-thou's turn'd just a deevil,

Has fash'd me reet lang, and oft vexes me sair : This fashion and feasting brings monie to ruin,

A duir o' my house they shall nit come within ; As for Bet, if she dunnet gang off till a sarvice,

When I's dead and geane she shall nit hev a pin." "Stop, Wull! whea was't brong thee that fortune? peer gomas!

Just thurteen guid yacres as lig to the sun; When I tuik up wi' thee, I'd lost peer Gwordy Glossip,

I've rued sin' that hour to the kurk when we run: Were thou cauld and coffin'd, I'd suin get a better; Sae creep off to bed, nit a word let us hear! They shall come, if God spare us, far mair than I mention'd

Elizabeth's burth-day but comes yence a-year!"