HERSELL pe Highland (hentleman, as Pothwel prig, man;

An'

mony alterations feen

Amang te Lawland Whig, man.

Fal lal, &c.

Firft when her to the Lawlands came,
Nainfell 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 shoulder;
The guid claymore hung pe her pelt,
The piftol fharg'd wi' pouder.

But for whereas these curfed preeks,
Wherewith her nerfe be lockit,
O hon! that e'er fhe faw 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 Ningland now,
An' laws pring on te cadger:
Nainfell wad durk him for her deeds,
But oh fhe fears te foger.

Anither law came after that,

Me never faw 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 fharge a penny for ilka horse,
In troth fhe'll no pe fheaper,
For nought but ga'en upo' the grund,
And they gi'e me a paper.

They tak' te horfe 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 him what hims like, man: pay

I'll fee a fhugement on his toor,

T'at filthy Turnimspike, man.

But I'll awa' to te Highland hills,
Where te'il a ane dare turn her,
And no come near her Turnimfpike,

Unless it

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 paffion to the grove. Echo, fweet Goddefs of the wood,

From all thy cells refound my care; And Forth, along thy filver flood, Convey my murmurs to the fair.

Tell her, O tell the charming maid,
In vain the feather'd warblers fing;
In vain the trees expand their fhade,
Or blooming Flora paints the fpring:
When abfent 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 BÆ.

ONALD'S a fhentleman, an' evermore fhall, For fhe's porn i' the Highlands, the pack o' Dunkel, 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 Ufqueba.

I was not a ribel, tho' I faught for my chief,
Nor am
I a rogue, who was never a thief:
Nainfell was a foger, and got te King's pay,
An' yet I'm depriv'd of her tear Ufqueba.

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 fee te King, tell her its no te right way,
To tak' frae poor Donald his tear Ufquebæ.

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

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

My curfe 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 Usqueba.

WAYWARD WI F E.

ALAS! my fon, you 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, fometimes the reel,
Or fome piece of the spinning wheel,
She will drive at you with good will,
And then she'll fend you to the de’il,
Sae bide you yet, &c.

When I, like you was young and free,
I valu'd not the proudeft fhe; ›
Like you I vainly boafted then,
That men alone were born to reign.
But bide you yet, &c.

Great Hercules and Sampson too,
Were ftronger men than I or you,
Yet they were baffled by their dears,
And felt the diftaff and the sheers.
Sae bide ye yet, &c.

Stout gates of brafs, and well-built walls,
Are proof 'gainft fwords and cannon-balls,
But nought is found by fea or land,
That can a wayward wife withstand.
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.

BIDE YE YET.

GINI had a wee houfe, and a canty wee fire,

A bonny wee wifie to praise and admire,

A bonny wee yardie afide a wee burn,
Farewel to the bodies that yammer and mourn.
And bide ye yet, and bide ye yet,
Ye little ken what may betide ye yet;
Some bonny wee body may be my lot,
And I'll ay be canty wi' thinking o't.

When I gang afield, and come hame at e'en,
I'll get my wee wife fou neat and fou clean,
And a bonny wee bairnie upon her knee,
That will cry papa or daddy to me.
And bide ye yet, &c.

And if there fhould happen ever to be
A diff'rence a'tween my wee wifie and me,
In hearty good humour, altho' fhe be teaz'd,
I'll kiss her, and clap her, until the be pleas'd.
And bide ye yet, &c.