BALLAD LXXXIV.

Gobblestone Parish.

BY A LADY.

TUNE," Come under my plaidie.”

WE'VE hed sec a durdum at Gobbleston parish, For twouty lang years, there's nit been sec a fair; We'd slack reape, and teght reape, and dogs that wer dancin,

Wi' leytle roun hats on, to gar the fwok stare: A leytle black messet danc'd sae leyke auld Jenny, I thought it wad niver run out o' my head;

It was last thing at neet, and the furst i' the mworn

ing,

And I rwoar'd leyke a feuil as I laid i' my bed.

And we had stage playin, and actors frae Lunnon, At hed sec a canny and bonny leyke say;

I forgat the black messet, and gowl'd leyke a ninny, Tho' I said to mysel," Wey, it's nobbet a play !" But aw that was naething, for monie wer blinded,

Aud Jemmy, that brags aw the town for a feght, He twistet and twirlt-it was just for an off-put, But aw wadn't dui, for he gowl'd hawf the neet.

And Betty Mac Nippen, and five of her dowters,

As feyne as May garlans, were clwose at my back; I was flayt they wad hinder fwok hear aw the speech

ing,

But they gowl'd see a gud'n, that nin o' them

spak :

And Betty hes heard frae her sister in Lunnon, And she's sent the bairns sec a mwort o' feyne

things,

That if Betty Mac Nippen wad mek tem stage players,

She cud fit tem out, ay leyke queens or leyke

kings.

Then down-the-brow Wully tuik up his cwoat lappet,
And held til his een, for he's given to jeer;

But I had it frae yen that was even fornenst him,
'Twas weel for his sel, his cwoat lappet was near.
Oh-Venus perserv'd was the neame o' the actin,
And Jaffer was him hed the beautiful weyfe;
Tho' I gowl'd aw the teyme, it's a wonder to tell on't,
I niver was hawf sae weel pleas'd i' my leyfe!

BALLAD LXXXV.

The Peet-cadger's Lament.

TUNE,-"Hey tutty tatty."

Or, "BURNS's Fareweel to JEAN."

MY bonny black meer's deed!

The thought's e'en leyke to turn my head!
She led the peets, and gat me bread;
But what wull I dui now?

She was bworn when Jwohn was bworn,
Just ninteen years last Thuirsday mworn;
Puir beast! had she got locks o'cworn,
She'd been alive, I trow!

When young, just leyke a deil she ran;
The car-geer at Durdar she wan;
That day saw me a happy man,

Now tears gush frae my e’e:
For she's geane, my weyfe's geane,
Jwohn's a swodger-I ha'e neane!
Brokken! dey'd left my leane,

I've nin to comfort me!

When wheyles I mounted on my yaud,
I niver reade leyke yen stark mad;
We toddled on, and beath were glad,
To see our sonsie deamne:

The weyfe, the neybors, weel she knew,
And aw the dey ke backs where gurse grew;
Then when she'd pang'd her belly fou,
How tow'rtly she cam heame!

Nae pamper'd beasts e'er heeded we;
Nae win or weet e'er dreeded we;
I niver cried woah, hop, or jee,
She keut-aye, iv'ry turn!

And wheyles I gat her teates o' hay,
And gev her watter tweyce a-day.
She's deed! She's deed, I'm wae to say;
Then how can I but mourn?

Frae Tindle-Fell twelve pecks she'd bring—
She was a yaud, fit for a king!

I niver strack her, silly thing!

'Twas hard we twea sud part!

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

And cannot raise anither meer;

But cannot leeve anither year!

The loss will break my heart!

Carlisle,

February 27, 1808.

ROBERT ANDERSON.

END OF THE BALLADS.