Then went to please them with a scone,

And so he burnt it black,
Ran to the well with twa new canns,
But none of them came back.

There's nae luck, &c.

The hens went to their neighbour's houfen

And there they laid their eggs, When simple John reprov'd thein forte He broke poor chuckies legs.

There's nae luck, &c.

He little thought of Maggy's toit,

As she was by the fire, But when he got a trial o't, He soon began to tire.

There's nae luck, &c.

First when he got the task in hand,

He thought all would go right,
But O he little wages had,
On Saturday at night.

There's nae luck, &c.

He had no gain from wheel or reel,
Nor
yarn

had he to sell,
He wilh'd for Maggy hame again,
Being out of money and meal.

There's nae luck, &c.

The de'il gaed o'er Jock Wabfter,

His lois he could not tell,
But when he wanted Maggy's help,
He did nae good himsel.

There's nae luck, &c.

Another want I do not name,

All night he got no ease,
But tumbl'd grumbl'd in his bed,
A fighting wi’ the ftaes.

There's nae luck, &c.

Wishing for Maggy's muckle hips,

Whereon the faes might feast, And for to be goodwife again,

He swore it was nae jeft. There's dae luck, &c.

,

Pe auld as Pothwel prig, man ; An' mony

alterations seen Amang te Lawland Whig, man.

Fallal, &c.

First when her to the Lawlands came,

Nainsell was driving cows, man: There was nae laws about him's nerse,

about the preeks or trews, man. Nainfell did wear the philabeg,

The plaid prick’t on her thoulder ; The guid claymore hung pe her pelt,

The pistol sharg'd wi' pouder.

But for whereas these cursed preeka,

Wherewith her nerse be lockit,
O hon! that e'er she saw the day !

For a' her houghs be prokit.

Every t’ing in the Highlands now

Pe turn’t to alteration ;
The foger dwall at our door fheck,

And tat’s te great vexation.
Scotland be turn't a Niogland now,

An' laws pring on te cadger : Nainfell wad durk him for her deeds,

But oh she fears te foger.

Anither law came after that,

Me never saw te like, man;
They mak' a lang road on te crund,

And ca’ him Turnimspike, man.

An' wow fhe pe a ponny road,

Like Louden corn riggs, man; Where two carts may gang on her,

An' no preak ithers legs, man.
They sharge a penny for ilka horse,

In troth she’H no pe Sheaper,
For nought but ga'en upo' the grund,

And they gi'e me a paper.

They tak' te horse t'en py te head,

And t'ere they mak’ him ftand, man: I tell’d them that I feen te day

He had nae fic command, man.

Nae doubts Nainfell maun tra' her purse, And pay

him what hims like, man: I'll see a shugement on his toor,

T'at filthy Turnimfpike, man.

But I'll awa' to te Highland hills,

Where te'il a ane dare turn her,
And no come pear her Turnimspike,
Unless it
pe to purn

her.

W

HILE penfive on the lonely plain,

Far from the fight of her I love, To the clear stream I tell my pain,

And figh my passion to the grove. Echo, sweet Goddess of the wood,

From all thy cells refound my care ; And Forth, along thy silver flood,

Convey my murmurs to the fair.

Tell her, O tell the charming maid,

In vain the feather'd warblers sing; In vain the trees expand their fhade,

Or blooming Flora paints the spring : When absent from her dearer charms,

Not all these beauties can invite; But did the bless her Jamie's arms,

E'en barren defarts would delight.

THE USQUE B Æ.
ONALD'S a fhentleman, an' evermore shall,

D , ,

But the King and his cadgers ha'e made me her prey, An' ta'en paith her pot, and her tear Ufquebæ.

Nainfell now has naething of auld Highland hue,
Put her turk, her claymore, and her ponnet o' blue;
Her plait and her kilt, ohon! mair wae !
She's reaved of them, and her tear Ufquebæ.

am I

I was not a ribel, tho' I faught for my chief, Nor a rogue,

who was never a thief: Nainsell was a foger, and got te King's pay, . An' yet I'm depriv'd of her tear Usquebæ.

On te morning our Shanet he wad gi'e me a tram,
Then I'd fight like a Turk, and work like a man :
If
you

see te King, tell her its no te right way, To tak’ frae poor Donald his tear Usquebæ.

When our Shanet was fick, and pearing te pairn,
A trink of good whisky it cherish'd his prain :
It made him to sing, and the houdie to pray ;
This was the fruits

o her goot Ufquebæ.

The whisky's te life o' te Highland be sure, Now te King's ain tear fogers may die in te muir : When her feets will be sair, in a caul winter day, She'll miss Donald's kebbucks an' goot Usquebæ.

My curse on te cadger t’at e'er he was born ; Poor Highlandman now maun pe Lallandman's scorn : Nainfell tho' pe hopes to fee petter day, And te te'il get the cadger, and her Usquebæ.

S O N G

CXCVII.

W AY WA R D W I F E.

LAS!
my

little know
The forrows that from wedlock flow,
Farewel to every day of ease,
When you have got a wife to please.

Sae bide you yet, and bide you yet,
Ye little ken what's to betide you yet ;
The half of that will gain ye yet,
If a wayward wife obtain ye yet.

You're experience is but small,
As yet you've met with little thrall:
The black cow on your feet ne'er trod,
Which gars you fing along the road.

Sae bide you yet, &c.
Sometimes the rock, sometimes the reel,
Or some piece of the spinning wheel,
She will drive at you with good will,
And then she'll send you to the de'il.

Sae bide you yet, &c.

When I, like you was young and free,
I valu'd not the proudest she ;
Like you I yainly boasted then,
That men alone were born to reiga.

But bide you yet, &c.