Pretendin some unlucky wramp * or strean, CURSTY. Sweet is this kiss as smell of dwallowed hay, PEGGY. 2 But let us rise,-the sun's our b Carrock-fell St. Agnes's Fast, or the Amorous Maiden. How lang I've fasted, and 'tis hardly four, This day I doubt 'ille neer be gitten f owr ; And theer's as lang a night, aleis! beside, I lall thought fasts sech ↳ fearfu' things to bide. h Fie, Roger, fie! a sairy lass to wrang, What garsk thee stay?-indeed its badly duin !1 Come-come thy ways,-thou mud" as weel come suin; For come thou mun, naw mothers wise agree, As I was powen a pezz to scaw'd ae night I dreamt,—the pleasant dream, I's ne'er forgit, A pippin frae an apple fair I cut, And clwose atween my thoomb and finger put, S Then cry'd, whore wons my luive? come tell me true! t And even forret stright away it fleu; It flew as Roger's house it wad hev" hit, I laited x last aw Hallow-Even lang, k Makes. P Lie. * Forward. I Done. m Mayest. n Must. • Sure. 9 Pulling. s Where lives. y Naked. r Nine. Wi' twea at last I met; to aither nut Turnips ae Saturday I paired, and yell a For nought, I's seer, but R. the scrawl wad fit, A fortune-teller leately com about, And my twea guid King Gweorge's I powt out; When t' other night the bride was put to bed, I on her feace directly meade it bit, z Fire. a Whole. d. Next. e One. b Called. f Hit. c Foretold. But what need I to fash me any mair, He'll be obleeged, avoid he't ne'er sae sare, Sud cruel Roger pruive sae cruel still, I mun not, like a fuil, gang fast aw day She said, and softly slipping cross the floor, Thrice to her head she rais'd the luncheon brown, The Poet's Petition. Ir Phoebus his Poet's petition would crown, Near which a clear stream in a valley should glide, side; And then my ambition no farther should stray, But to better my life and to better my lay, To virtue's improvement, and vice's decay. Facher. Fr. h Destined. i These. A competent fortune should be my next call, A friend of like temper and honesty tried, At town I or seldom or never would come, And when those dear pleasures no more shall be mine, Not weary with life, nor yet loth to resign, In death I would gently dissolve as in rest, And this epitaph should be wrote in each breast. The Poet's ambition no farther did stray, But to better his life, and better his lay, To virtue's improvement, and vice's decay. |