Hut, Jossy! just tell us the sea's runnin' dry!
Owre monie sec durdums fwok sees, min ;
I've h'ard o' thy wauthor-it's pleasin' to me-
Aud Nichol's the deevil for lees, min.
In towns, aye in villages, stwories grow big,
Leyke snowbaws roll'd up in a street, min!
But may aw to peace an' to merriment bow,
Whene'er at kurn-winnins they meet, min.
Ov murry-neets, clay-daubin's, weddin's, they tell,
Bruff reaces, the fratch, cursmess eve, min;
In mischief an' leein' owre monie deleyte,
An' Nichol ay talks to deceive, min.

THE TRUE-PRAIS'D VIRTUOUS COUPLE.

A

The tune by the Author.

HAPPY couple heaps may truly neame,

An' justly think nin better can be seen, They ay show daily what mun lead to fame; It's pleasin' when to sec true praise is gi’en ! Nowt on this yerth can ever better be,

To man or woman, iv they duty show To our Almighty, an' to mortals gi'e

What mun pruive interesting ay to aw. A just tnown pair, that fwok can ken sae reet, May they hilth, wealth, an' happiness lang meet! Gud fwok, beath authors, aw maks, ay sud praise; Yet far owre few ther' is whea show just ways.

Now, them we sing on, are the weel-leykt set,

What aw that tnow, or hear o' them, can say;
Sae, fwok mun wish, they'll joyfu' teyme lang get,
When durin' leyfe, they've duty shown ilk day!
Theer's thousan's carry on, what sadness is;
In town an' country, it's owre common now!
O pity, onie mortal sec yence dis!

Heaps leyke the couple we'd be glad to view.
A just tnown pair, &c.

Yet, iv thro' Cummerlan' we just could walk, We'd hev nae whops to meet an' hear sec pair! When fain they plishure show to God, an' fwok, Ther's nin owre aw the warl that can dui mair! Let's nae yen flatter ov aw maks we ken,

But talk, sing, truly, what's our duty still! We've ne'er h'ard sec praise gi'en to pair, or yen; Sae, till deeth caws, ne'èr may they yence be ill! A just tnown pair, &c.

Neame o' this varteous twee we now may give, What mun be pleasin' to gud fwok to hear; When tnown by thousan's roun' whoar just they leeve,

Ilk yen, leyke me, sud ay say what pruives clear:It's Mr., Mrs. Howard, husban', weyfe,

At Corby Cassel; let fwok talk or sing,

Plain truth o' that gran' couple; durin' leyfe, They've always duin what whops o' heav'n can bring.

A just tnown pair, &c.

FAV RITE JEAN.

WHEN war's loud trumpet cawt to arms,

An' Britain bad fair Freedom wield,

Young Jemmy won by fause alarms,
Went far to seek the feghtin' fiel’;
I ne'er cud speak, scarce him cud view,
For oft the tears fell frae my een,

Three times he sed, "Dear lass, pruive true!"
Shuik han's-seeght-left his fav'rite Jean.

Tho' burds sing blythe on hill an' grove,
An' flow'rs sae bonny sheyne aw day,
I cannot toil, tho' lang I've struive,
But think ov Jemmy far away.
Ay nature's smeyles cud plishure gi'e,
When walkin' wi' him on the green;
Aw seasons then ga'e joy to me:
But plishure's left his fav'rite Jean.

Nae mair the blithesome sangs I hear
Frae young lads toilin' at the plew;
Nae keyn acquaintance I gang near,
For that cud gi'e nae plishure now;
Whene'er I stray alang the burn,
Whoar oft wi' him we've murry been,
The blackburd seems wi' me to mourn;
An' monie pity fav'rite Jean.

How lang mun suff'rin' sowdger man
His brother kill wi' gun or sword,
To please the weyld sad tyrant clan,
The hireling kneave, or pampert Iword?
O meek-ey'd Peace thy olive wave,—
Lang teyme a wand'rer thou hes been,—
Thy smeyles, frae deeth, may thousan's seave,
An' bring the luive to fav'rite Jean.

THE PREYDE O' MY LUIVE.

SWEET Nelly! dear Nelly! O was thou incleyn'd Thro' leyfe mey companion, mey breyde, for

to be,

The cares o' this warl cud ne'er harass the meynd, An' aw in my pow'r I'd share daily wi' thee.

For fashion or folly I never yence struive,

Still mey wish is for Ellen, the preyde o' mey luive.

When spring yearly brings us a change an' sweet flowers,

Leyke burds, we'd ay welcome her heart-cheerin' smeyle,

And l'arn frae their songs daily h'ard in the bow'rs, The partner to please, but ne'er wish to begueyle;

Deame Nature's gran' warks to beath joyfu' wad pruive,

When gazin' wi' Ellen, the preyde o' mey luive.

When summer, when autumn, gev plenty aw roun'True blessin's to aw maks-how dear the deleyte; An' when the deed leaves, quiv'rin', daily fell down, They just seem to say, "Aw mun be the seame.” Thro' leyfe's toilin' years fain we'd try to impruive,

An' true joys share, Ellen, sweet preyde o' mey luive.

Where winter wad daily blow weyl owre the hill, An' peer houseless bodies mud shrink at his reage, The stormy blasts ne'er sud us flay; we'd sit still In peace, whopin' ay for leyfe's winter ov yeage.

Nae rich man on earth e'er mair happy cud pruive, If mey breyde was but Ellen, the preyde o' mey luive.

LEEIN' AN' SWEERIN'.

UCK to ev'ry bodie

LU

That ne'er lee or sweer!

Monie mek't their study,

Sec owre oft we hear.
Leein' leads to sorrow,
Swearin' just the seame;

Fwok that whops wad borrow,
Let them cry, O sheame!