You say my sweetheart, Sally, 's weel-
To leave you baith was wrang—
O mother, give but your consent,
We'll marry 'or its lang.

MOTHER.

God speed ye weel! a cannier pair
Neer kneel'd afwore a priest;
For me, I've suffer'd lang and sair,
The grave 'll get me neist.

Suin, Harry, bring her frae the town,

And happy let us be;

This house, the field, the cow, the sow,

Now aw belangs to thee.

END OF MISS BLAMIRE AND MISS GILPIN'S SONGS

SONGS.

JOHN

BY

RAYSON.*

WORTHLESS STRANG.

Tune,-" Borrowdale Jwohnny."

THE upper Hill beauty is ay yet unweddet, Sae, Lanty, buck at her, nor langer delay, Fwok say a faint heart never gain'd a fair leady,

Thou's nobbet leyke monie sud she say thee nay; She's got lots o' money, she's fair as the rwoses,

To see sec a flow'r unenjoy'd is wheyte wrang, Sae heaste and mek ready, 'twad shem the heale parish To let her be teane wud a gipsy leyke Strang.

She's fuilish and thoutless to nwotish this fellow, When scwores o' rich lairds for her seegh and repeyne,

For he is just e'en the offscum o' the county,

There's nit a yen honest in aw his whole keyne; Their crymes out o' number are weel known at Hesket,

Nit yen o' his kin but 's weel wordy to hang, To aw our whole parish their neames are a terror, "Twill e'en flay the bairns if ye mention but Strang.

* From his Miscellaneous Poems, 16mo, Carlisle, 1830.

"Tis whuspert about how they've lang meade a leeving,
Last year
it com' out yen had teane the highway,
But suin he was sent to thief's college at Carel,
And shipp'd wi' some mair o'er to Bottonay Bay.
I think the puir lass is just warse nor bedeaver'd,
She'll see through her folly befwore it be lang;
Her friends wad far rather hear tell o' her berring,
Aye, twenty teymes owre, than her wedding wud
Strang.

I' fruit teymes o' summer he oft play'd the truant, To breck fwok's worchets, when he went to skuil; Sin' childhood he's ay been a thief in his nature,

And scarce knows his letters-the ignorant fuil. Sae her thy hand offer and seave her frae ruin,

And if thou succeed that ill tuil, lad, to bang, A stave thou wilt hear, how I'll lilt at thy wedding, And oft drink confusion to rascals leyke Strang.

L

CHARLIE M'GLEN.

AL Charlie M'Glen he was brong up a pedder, A wutless bit hav'ril, a conceited yape, He selt beggar inkle, caps, muslins, and cottons, Goons, neck❜loths, and stockings, thread, needles,

and tape;

'Tis whuspert by sleet-han' he's meade lots o' money, His actions now pruive him the weale o' bad men, He's guilty o' crimes that desarve him a gallows, For biggest o' rascals is Charlie M'Glen.

Puir Bella, the weyfe, she's a decent man's douter,
And prays oft that heaven wad give her relief;
She's e'en been bedeivel'd leyke meast o'young lasses,
And claims to our pity she's join'd till a thief.
A reace, fair, or market, he seldom yen misses;
The Carel street-robbers he kens monie yen,-
For burds of a feather they ay flock together,

And sae mun those villains wi' Charlie M'Glen.

At Skinberness reaces he pick'd a man's pocket,For slape-fingert art he is equall'd by neane,— But he was o'erseen, and they seiz'd the vile sharper And fworc'd him to give back the money ageane; At Abbey last week he fell in wi' Kit Stewart,

And crowns, frae his pocket, he got nine or ten, But suin for that job he was teane by the beaylies: But money frae prison seav'd Charlie M'Glen.

He's seldom at heame, and his weyfe's kept in terror; At neets i' the lonning he's seen at aw teymes; A swindlin' rascal he's been frae his cradle,

It's nit in yen's power to out-number his crimes, For he steals hens and ducks wi' thur Shaddongeate fellows:

O happy's the county that's clear o' sec men! I whope that my lword, at the next Carel 'sizes,

Will ship o'er the herring-dub Charlie M'Glen.

I'D

DAN PATTINSON'S YELL.

Tune,-"Come under my plaidie.”

'D hev ye giv owre and drink nae mair brandy, Nor rum, gin, or whiskey, to puzzen the flesh, Nor trash Lunnon porter that's brew'd about Kendal, Nae mair weast yer money on ony sec wesh; But when ye are dry just gan up to Mat Wulson's, To slocken yen's drought, min, rare stuff he does sell:

When my heart is sinking, I rais't there wi' drinking A full measure whart o' Dan Pattinson's yell.

When bottl'd awhile it wull grow strang as brandy,
And blow out the corks leyke a bottle o' pop;
But yel about Dalston, at Langtown, and Branton,
It smells o' the wesh leyke lal Fisher's shop,
For they everly full their weak stuff full o' jalop,
And drugs that wad puzzen the deavel himsel',
Your senses it seizes, your head it diseases,—

'Tis nought to compare to Dan Pattinson's yell. Ye rhymers, dull souls, whose poor hearts sunk in

sorrow,

Who study to paint each vile wretch that trepans, Ye'd bid care adieu and wi' joy view to-morrow, If ye hed yer full frae a barrel o' Dan's ; Ye public-house keepers, this king of aw liquors I'd hev ye to draw, and far mair ye wad sell, Ye'd never want custom for drinkers they must come, If your cellars were stor❜d wi' Dan Pattinson's yell.