BALLAD XI.

THE LASS ABUIN THIRTY.

TUNE," Jocky'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 ha'e her choice o' three;

For me, still moilin by mysel,

Life's just a bitter widout sweets; The simmer brings nae 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 :
A kiss he'd hev, I gev him twee,

Reeght weel I mind amang the hay;
Neist time we met, he glump'd and gloom'd,
And turn'd his head anither way,

waist

A feyne pink sash my uncle sent
́Frae Lunnon yence; about my
I wore't and wore't, but de'il a lad
At me or sash a luik e'er cast:

My yellow gown I thought was sure
To catch some yen at Carel Fair,
But, oh fareweel to gown and sash,
I'll niver, niver wear them mair!

The throssle, when cauld winter's geane, Aye in our worchet welcomes spring;—

It mun be luive, did we but ken,

Gars him aroun his partner sing.

The cock and hen, the duck and drake, Nay e'en the smawest birds that flee, Ilk thing that lives can get a mate, Except sec sworry things as me.

I often think how married fwok
Mun lead a sweet and happy life;
The prattlin bairns rin toddlin roun,
And tie the husband to the wife:

Then, oh! what joy when neet draws on!
She meets him gangen frae his wark:
But nin can tell what cheerfu' cracks
The tweesome ha'e lang efter dark.

The wise man lives nit far frae this,
I'll hunt him out suin as I can;
He telt Nan Dobson whee she'd wed,
And I'm as likely, sure, as Nan.
But still, still moilin by mysel,

Life's just a bitter widout sweets:
The summer brings nae pleasant days,
And winter tires wi' lang, lang neets!

BALLAD XII.

TOM LINTON.

August 3, 1802.

TUNE," Come under my plaidie."

TOM LINTON was bworn till a brave canny fortune, His auld fadder screap'd aw the gear up he cud; But Tom, country booby, luik'd owre hee abuin him, And mix'd wi' the bad, nor e'er heeded the good. At the Town he'd whore, gammle, play hell, and the deevil,

He wad hev his caper, nor car'd how it com; Then he mud hev his greyhounds, guns, setter, and hunter,

And king o' the cockers they aw cursen'd Tom.

I think I just see how the lads wad flock roun him,

And oh they were fain to shek Tom by the han! Then he'd tell how he fit wi' the barbers and bullies, And drank wi' the waiter till nowther cud stan : His watch he wad shew, and his lists o' the horses, And pou out a guinea, and offer to lay, Till our peer country lads grew uneasy and lazy, And Tom cud ha'e coax'd hawf the parish away.

Then he drank wi' the squire, and laugh'd wid his worship,

And talk'd of the duke, and the deevil kens whee; He gat aw the the new-fangl'd oaths i' the nation,

And mock'd a peer beggar man wanting an e'e. His fields they were mortgag'd;-about it was whisper'd ;

A farmer was robb'd nit owre far frae his house; At last aw was selt his auld fadder had toil'd for, And silly Tom Linton left nit worth a sous.

His fortune aw spent, what! he'd ha'e the laird's dow

ter,

But she pack'd him off wid a flee in his ear;

Neist thing, an auld comrade for money Tom borrow'd
E'en pat him in prison, and had him lig there:
At last he gat out, efter lang he had suffer'd,
And sair had repented the sad life he'd led :
Widout shoon till his feet, in a soldier's auld jacket,
He works on the turnpike reet hard for his bread.

Now folly seen into, ragg'd, peer, and down-hearted,
He toils and he frets, and keen wants daily press;
If cronies ride by, wey, alas! they've forgot him,
For whee can remember auld friends in distress?
O pity, what pity, that, in every county

Sae monie *Tom Lintons may always be found! Deuce tek aw girt nwotions, and whurligig fashions, Contentment's a kingdom, aye, aw the warl round! August 4, 1802.

BALLAD XIII.

THE HAPPY FAMILY†.

TUNE," O'er bogie."

THE hollow blast blows owre the hill,
And comin down's the sleet;
God help them, widout house or hauld,

This dark and stormy neet!
Come, Jobby, gi'e the fire a prod,

Then steek the entry duir;
It's wise to keep cauld winter out,
When we ha'e't in our pow'r.

*See Note XIX.

See Note XX.

C