THERE'S sec a gang in our town, Furst wi' Dick Wiggem we'll begin, The teyney, greasy wobster: He's got a gob frae lug to lug, And neb leyke onie lobster; Dick' weyfe, they say, was Branton bred, Her mudder was a howdey, And when peer Dick's thrang on the luim, But as for Jwohnnie, silly man, He threeps about the nation, He reads the paper yence a week, Lang Peel the laird's a dispert chap, Nae bandylan can match her: But that's a fearfu' stwory, And sud he hing on Carel Sands, Beane-breker Jwohn we weel may neame, By manglin limbs and streenin joints, Mair hurt he's duin than onie yen When sec leyke guffs leame decent fwok, The schuilmaister's a conjuror, For when our lads are drinkin, And in the muin he kens what's duin Then theer's the blacksmith wi' ae ee, Then eat a cow'd-lword leyke his head, Aye, onie day at dinner. Jack Marr, the hirplin piper's son, Can bang them aw at leein; He'll brek a lock, or steal a cock, Wi' onie yen in bein: He eats guid meat, and drinks strang drink, And weel he may, a bonny fray Com out last Whissen-Monday. The doctor he's a parfet pleague, The 'squire's ruin'd scwores and scwores Theer's twenty mair, coarse as neck beef, Theer's blue nebb'd Watt, and ewe-chin'd Dick, Weel wordy o' the gallows O happy is the country seyde That's free frae sec leyke fellows! NOVEMBER 27, 1803. LANG SEYNE. TUNE," Jockey's grey breeks.” THE last new shun our BETTY gat, Nae black gairn stockins will she wear, Our dowter, tui, a palace* bought, A guid reed clwoak she cannot wear; And stays, she says, spoil leady's sheps→→→ Oh! it wad mek a parson swear! Nit ae han's turn o' wark she'll dui, She'll nowther milk or sarrat sweyne→→→ The country's puzzen'd roun wi' preyde, For lasses work'd reet hard lang seyne. * Pelisse. |