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XXVIII.

Wr' merry sangs, an’ friendly cracks,

I wat they did na weary;
And unco tales, an' funnie jokes,

Their sports were cheap an' cheary:
Till butter'd So'ns *, wi' fragrant lunt,

Set a' their gabs a-steerin ; Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, They parted aff careerin

Fu'blythe that night.

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* Sowens with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween Supper.

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On giving her the accustomed Ripp of Corn to Hana

sel in tbe New-year.

A Guid New year I wilh thee, Maggie ! Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie : Tho'thou's howe-backit, now, an' knaggie,

I've seen the day,

Thou could hae gaen like onie-staggie

Out-owre the lay.

Tho'now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy,

An' thy auld hide as white's a daisie,

I've seen thee dappl't, fleek an' glaizie,

A bonie gray;

He should been tight that daur't to raize thee,

Ance in a day.

THOU ance was i' the foremost rank,
A filly buirdly, fteeve, an' swank,
An' fet weel down a shapely fhank,

As e'er tread yird ;

An' could hae flown out-owre a ftank,

Like onie bird.

It's now fome nine an'-twenty year,

Sin' thou was my Guid-father's Meere;

He gied me thee, o'tocher clear,

An' fifty mark;

Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear,

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WHEN first I gaed to woo my Jenny, Ye then was trettin wi' your

Minnie : Tho’ye was trickie, flee, an' funnie,

Ye ne'er was donfie;

But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie,

An'unco fonfie,

That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, When

ye bure hame my bonie Bride : An' sweet an' gracefu' fhe did ride,

Wi' maiden air!

Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide,

For fic a pair.

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble,

An' wintle like a faumont-coble,

That day, ye was a jinker noble,

For heels an' win'!

An'

An' ran them till they a' did wauble,

Far, far behin'!

When thou an' I were young an' skiegh, An' ftable-meals at Fairs were driegh, How thou wad prance, an' snore' an’skriegh,

An' take the road !

Town's-bodies ran, an' stood abiegh,

An'ca't thee mad.

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow,

We took the road ay like a Swallow:

At Broøses thou had ne'er a fellow,

For pith an' speed; But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow,

Whare'er thou gaed.

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle,

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