And there will be gleed Geordy Janners,
And Kirsh wi' the lily-white leg,
Who gade to the south for manners,
And bang'd up her wame in Mons-meg,
Fy let us a', &c.

And there will be Geordie M'Cowrie,
And blinking daft Barbara Macleg,
Wi' flae-lugged sharny-fac'd Lawrie,
And shangy-mou'd halucket Meg.
And there will be happer-a-'d Nansy,
And fairy-fac'd Flowrie by name,
Muck Madie, and fat-hippit Grisy,
The lass wi' the gowden wame.
Fy let us a', &c.

And there will be girn-again Gibbie,
Wi' his glakit wife, Jenny Bell,
And misle-chinn'd Mungo Macapie,
The lad that was skipper himsel.
There lads and lasses in pearlings
Will feast in the heart of the ha',
On sybows, and rifarts, and carlings,
That are baith sodden and raw.
Fy let us a', &c.

And there will be fadges and brachen,
With fowth of good gabbocks of skate,
Powsowdie, and drammock, and crowdy,
And caller nowt-feet in a plate;
And there will be partans and buckies,
And whytins and speldens enew,
Wi' sing'd sheep-heads, and a haggies,
And scadlips to sup till ye spew.
Fy let us a', &c.

And there will be lapper'd-milk kebbucks,
And sowens, and farles, and baps,
Wi' swats, and well-scraped paunches,
And brandy in stoups and in caps.

And there will be meal-kail and castocks,
And skink to sup till ye rive;

And roasts to roast on a brander
Of flowks that were taken alive.
Fy let us a', &c.

Scrapt haddocks, wilks, dulse, and tangle,
And a mill of good sneeshing to prie;
When weary with eating and drinking,
We'll rise up and dance till we die.
Fy let us a' to the bridal,

For there will be lilting there;
For Jockie's to be marry'd to Maggie,
The lass with the gowden hair.

Francis Sempill.

TWEEDSIDE.

What beauties does Flora disclose?

How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed? Yet Mary's still sweeter than those; Both nature and fancy exceed. Nor daisy, nor sweet blushing rose,

Not all the gay flowers of the field, Not Tweed, gliding gently through those, Such beauty and pleasure does yield.

The warblers are heard in the grove,

The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, The blackbird, and sweet cooing dove, With music enchant every bush. Come, let us go forth to the mead,

Let us see how the primroses spring; We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, And love while the feather'd folks sing.

How does my love pass the long day?
Does Mary not tend a few sheep?
Do they never carelessly stray,
While happily she lies asleep?

Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest;
Kind nature indulging my bliss,
To relieve the soft pains of my breast,
I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.

'Tis she does the virgins excel,

No beauty with her may compare ; Love's graces around her do dwell,

She's fairest, where thousands are fair. Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray? Oh! tell me at noon where they feed; Shall I seek them on sweet winding Tay, Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed? Robert Crawfurd.

MY DEARIE, IF THOU DIE.

Love never more shall give me pain,
My fancy's fixed on thee;

Nor ever maid my heart shall gain,
My Peggy, if thou die.

Thy beauty doth such pleasure give,
Thy love's so true to me;
Without thee I shall never live,
My dearie, if thou die.

If fate shall tear thee from my breast,

How shall I lonely stray?

In dreary dreams the night I'll waste,

In sighs, the silent day.

I ne'er can so much virtue find,

Nor such perfection see;

Then I'll renounce all womankind,

My Peggy, after thee.

No new-blown beauty fires my heart

With Cupid's raving rage,

But thine, which can such sweets impart,

Must all the world engage.

"Twas this, that like the morning sun,
Gave joy and life to me;

And when its destined day is done,
With Peggy let me die.

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love,
And in such pleasure share;
You who its faithful flames approve,
With pity view the fair;

Restore my Peggy's wonted charms,
Those charms so dear to me;

Oh! never rob me from those arms;
I'm lost if Peggy die.

Robert Crawfurd.

WILLY WAS A WANTON WAG.

Willy was a wanton wag,

The blythest lad that e'er I saw, At bridals still he bore the brag,

And carried aye the gree awa :

His doublet was of Zetland shag,
And wow! but Willy he was braw,

And at his shoulder hung a tag,

That pleas'd the lasses best of a'.

He was a man without a clag,

His heart was frank without a flaw;

And aye whatever Willy said,

It was still hauden as a law.

His boots they were made of the jag;
When he went to the wapinschaw,
Upon the green nane durst him brag,
The fient a ane amang them a'.

And was not Willy weel worth gowd?
He wan the love of great and sma';
For after he the bride had kiss'd,
He kiss'd the lassies hale-sale a':

Sae merrily round the ring they row'd,
When by the hand he led them a',
And smack on smack on them bestow'd,
By virtue of a standing law.

And wasna Willy a great loun,

As shyre a lick as e'er was seen?
When he danc'd with the lasses round,

The bridegroom speer'd where he had been.
Quoth Willy, I've been at the ring,

With bobbing, faith, my shanks are sair;
Gae ca' your bride and maidens in,
For Willy he dow do nae mair.

Then rest ye, Willy, I'll gae out,
And for a wee fill up the ring:
But, shame licht on his souple snout,
He wanted Willy's wanton fling.
Then straight he to the bride did fare,
Says, weil's me on your bonny face,
With bobbing, Willy's shanks are sair,
And I am come to fill his place.

Bridegroom, she says, you'll spoil the dance,
And at the ring you'll aye be lag,

Unless like Willy ye advance;

(O! Willy has a wanton leg:)

For wi't he learns us a' to steer,

And foremost aye bears up the ring;

We will find nae sic dancing here,

If we want Willy's wanton fling.

William Walkinshaw.

THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE.

And are you sure the news is true?

And are you sure he's weel?

Is this a time to talk of wark?

Mak haste, lay by your wheel!