GABRIEL.

Nay but, neybor Matthew, when ninety lang winters Ha'e bent yen, and powder'd the pow,

We grane i' the nuik, wi' few friens or acquaintance, And just fin we cannot tell how:

For me, I's sair fash'd wi' a cough and the gravel, And ae single tuith i' my head;

Then, sin my peer bairn they tuik off for a sowdger, I've wish'd I were nobbet weel dead ;—

The house uncle ga'e me the squire e'en ta'en frae me: There's nought but the warkhouse for me!

MATTHEW.

My fadder, God rust him! wi' pinchin and pleenin, Screap'd up aw the gear he cud get;

I've been a sad deevil, and spent gowd i' gowpens, But still ha'e a hantel left yet:

Come gi'es thy hand, Gabey *! tou's welcome as may be.

My purse and my ambrie to share ;

We'll talk of auld times,-eat, drink, and be merry: Thy granson sall get what we spare:

Then leet thy pipe, Gabey! tou's welcome as may be, They's ne'er mek a beggar o' thee!

BALLAD XLI.

UNCLE WULLY.

TUNE," Woo'd and married and a'."

"IT'S a comical warl this we live in,"
Says Calep, and Calep says reet;
For Matty, that's got aw the money,
Has e'en geane and wedded deyl'd Peat
He's nobbet a heather-feac'd maz'lin,
And disn't ken whisky frae yell;
But her, weel brong up and a scholar,
Has just meade a fuil o' hersel!
De'il bin but she'd little to de,
To tek sec a hawflin as he,

That nowther kens A, B, or C!—

Nay, what sec a pair can ne'er 'gree!

He ne'er hes a teale widout laitin,

And hardleys can grease his awn clogs; He marry a decent man's dowter!

He's fitter to lig amang hogs!

At the clock for an hour he'll keep glymin, But de'il e'er the time he can tell;

And my niece, for that ae word HUSBAND,

Has e'en geane and ruin'd hersel.

De'il bin, &c.

Her fadder, God keep him! my billy,
Aye thought her the flow'r o' them aw;
And said on his deeth-bed, O, Wully,

Luik till her, man, when I lig low!'
I meade her beath reader and writer-
Nin bang'd her, the maister can tell;
But, speyte o' beath larnin and manners,
She's e'en meade a guff of hersel.

De'il bin, &c.

When lasses get past aw advisin,

Our's then turns a piteous case;

A cwoat or sark yen may shep them,

But aw cannot gi'e them God's greace:

For me, I'll e'n deet my hands on her,
And this aw our neybors I'll tell;
She's meade a bad bed, let her lig on't,
And think how she's ruin'd hersel.

De'il bin but she'd little to de,
To tek sec a hawflin as he,

That nowther kens A, B, or C!—

Nay, what sec a pair can ne'er 'gree!

April 10, 1804.

BALLAD XLIII.

GUID STRANG YELL.

OUR Ellek likes fat bacon weel*,
And havver-bannock pleases Dick;
A cow'd-lword meks lal Wully fain,
And cabbish aye turns Philip sick;

Our deame's for gurdle-ceake and tea,
And Betty's aw for thick pez-keale;
Let ilk yen fancy what they wull,

Still my delight is guid strang yell.

I ne'er had muckle, ne'er kent want, Ne'er wrang'd a neybor, frien, or kin; My weyfe and bairns 'buin aw I prizeThere's music i' their varra din:

I labor suin, I labor leate,

And chearfu' eat my humble nieal; My weage can feed and clead us aw, And whiles affords me guid strang yell.

***See Note XLIV.

G

What's aw the warl widout content?

Wi' that and health man can't be peer; We suin slip off frae friens and foes,

Then whea but fuils wad feght for gear.

'Bout kings and consuls gowks may fratch;
For me I scworn to vex mysel,

But laugh at courts, and owre-grown knaves,
When I've a hush o' guid strang yell.

BALLAD XLIV.

BURGH RACES.

April 22, 1804.

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:

The CUP was aw siller, and letter'd reet neycely,
A feyne naig they've put on't, forby my Lword's

neame;

It hods nar a qnart, for monie drank out on't,

And open'd their gills till they cu'dn't creep heame.