My mudder has got frostet heels;
And peace is the talk o' the nation,
For paper says varra neist week

There's to be a grand humiliation.*

Aunt Meable has lost her best sark,
And Cleutie is bleam'd varra mickle;
Nought's seafe out o' duirs now-a-days,
Frae a millstone e'en down to a sickle.
The clock it streykes eight, I mun heame,
Or I's git a deuce of a fratchin:
When neist we've a few hours to spare
We'll fin' out what mischief's a hatchin'.

THE IMPATIENT

DEUCE

LASSIE.

Tune,-"Low down in the broom."

tek the clock! click-clackin' sae Ay in a body's ear;

It tells and tells the teyme is past

When Jwohnny sud been here.

Deuce tek the wheel! 'twill nit rin roun,

Nae mair to-neet I'll spin,

But count each minute wid a seegh

Till Jwohnny he steals in.

*Illumination.

How neyce the spunky fire it burns

For twee to sit beseyde,

And theer's the seat where Jwohnny sits

And I forget to cheyde;

My fadder, tui, how sweet he snwores,

My mudder's fast asleep

He promis'd oft, but, oh! I fear
His word he wunnet keep.

What can it be keeps him frae me?

The ways are nit sae lang,

And sleet and snow are nought at aw
If yen were fain to gang:

Some udder lass, wi' bonnier feace,
Has catch'd his wicked ee,
And I'll be pointed at at kurk—
Nay, suiner let me dee!

O durst we lasses nobbet gang
And sweetheart them we leyke,
I'd run to thee, my Jwohnny, lad,
Nor stop at bog or deyke:
But custom's sec a silly thing-
Thur men mun hae their way,
And monie a bonny lassie sit
And wish frae day to day.

I

yence hed sweethearts monie a yen They'd weade thro' muck and mire, And when our fwok wer deed asleep Com' tremlin' up to t' fire.

At Carel market lads wad stare,

And talk, and follow me;

Wi' feyne shwort keakes, ay frae the fair, Baith pockets cramm'd wad be.

O dear! what changes women pruive
In less than seeben year,

I walk the lonnins, owre the muir,
But de'il a chap comes near!
And Jwohnny I nee mair can trust,
He's just like aw the lave;

I fin' this sairy heart 'll brust!
I'll suin lig i' my grave!

But, whisht! I hear my Jwohnny's fit

Aye, that's his varra clog!

He steeks the faul yeat softly tui

Oh, hang that cwoley dog!

Now hey for seeghs and suggar words,

Wi' kisses nit a few

This warl's a parfe't paradeyse

When lovers they pruive true!

WATTY.

Tune,-"The lads o' Dunce."

IF you ax where I come frae, I say the fell seyde,

Where fadder and mudder and honest fwok

beyde;

And my sweetheart-O bliss her!-she thought nin leyke me,

For when we shuik han's the tears gush'd frae her ee. Says I, I mun e'en get a spot if I can,

But whativer beteyde me, I'll think o' thee, Nan.

Spoken.] Nan was a parfe't beauty, wi' twee cheeks leyke codlin' blossoms: the varra seet on her meade my mouth aw watter. "Fares-te-weel, Watty," says she; "tou's a wag amang t' lasses, and I'll see thee nae mair." "Nay, dunnet gowl, Nan," says I,

For, mappen, er lang I's be maister mysel.
Sae we buss'd, and I tuik a last luik at the fell.

On I whussel'd and wonder'd, my bundle I flung Owre my shou'der, when cwoley he efter me sprung, And howl'd-silly fellow !-and fawn'd at my fit, As if to say, "Watty, we munnet part yet.' At Carel I stuid wi' a strae i' my mouth, And they tuik me, nae doubt, for a promisin' youth. Spoken.] The weyves com' roun' me in clusters. weage dus te ax, canny lad ?" says yen. "Wey, three a crown ;-wunnet beate a hair o' my beard." "What can te dui ?" says anudder. "Dui, wey I can pleugh, sow, mow, sheer, thresh, deyke, milk, kurn, muck a byre, sing a psolm, men' car

"What

pun and

gear, dance a whornpeype, nick a naig's tail, hunt a brock, or feght iver a yen o' my weight in aw Croglin parish."

Auld Margery Jackson suin caw't me her man; But that day, I may say't, aw my sorrows began.

Furst, cwoley-peer fellow!-they hang'd i' the street,

And skinn'd-God forgi'e them!—for shun to their feet!

I cried, and they caw'd me a peer hawfwitted clown, And banter'd and follow'd me aw up and down. Neist, my deame she e'en starv'd me, that niver liv'd weel;

Her hard words and luiks wou'd ha'e freeten'd the de'il ;

Spoken.] She hed a lang beard for aw t' warl leyke a billygoat, wi' a kil-dried frosty feace; and then the smawest leg o' mutton in aw Carel market sarrad the cat, me, and hur for a week. The bairns meade sec gam' on us, and thunder'd at the rapper as if to waken a corp: when I open'd the duir they threw stour i' my een, and caw'd me daft Watty.

Sae I pack'd up my duds when my quarter was out, And, wi' weage i' my pocket, I saunter'd about.

Suin my reet-han' breek pocket they pick'd in a fray, And wi' fifteen wheyte shillin's they slipp'd clean

away,

Forby my twee letters frae mudder and Nan,

Where they said Carel lasses wad Watty trapan. But 'twou'd tek a lang day just to tell what I saw, How I sceap'd frae the gallows, the sowdgers and aw.