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Pretendin some unlucky wramp* or strean,
For Cursty's kind guid-natur'd heart to mean, y

CURSTY.

Sweet is this kiss as smell of dwallowed z hay,
Or the fresh prumrose on the furst o' May;
Sweet to the teaste as pears or apples moam, ?
Nay, sweeter than the sweetest honeycomb.

PEGGY.

But let us rise,—the sun's owr o Carrock-fell
And Juik !--whae's

yon 'ats d walking to the well : Up, Cursty, up! for God's sake let me gang, For fear the maister put us in a sang !

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' owr;
And theer's as lang a night, aleis ! beside,
I lall thought fasts seck b fearfu' things to bide.

Fie, Roger, fie ! a sairy lass to wrang,
And let her aw this trouble undergang;

* Wrench.
o Over.
f Got.

y Pity.

z Withered:
c Who is. d That is.
& Little.

a Mellow.
e Will.
i Poor.

h Such.

What

garsk thee stay ?-indeed its badly duin ! 1 Comecome thy ways,-thou mud” as weel come

suin ;

n

For come thou mun, aw mothers wise agree,
And mothers wise can never seero aw lee. P

As I was powen 9 pezz to scaw'd ae night
O' ane wi' neen' it was my luck to light,
This fain I underneath my bouster laid,
And gat as fast as e'er I cou'd to bed :
I dreamt,-the pleasant dream, I's ne'er forgit,
And ah ! this cruel Roger comes not yet !

A pippin frae an apple fair I cut,
And clwose atween my thoomb and finger put,
Then cry'd, whore wons & my luive? come tell

me true!
And even forret' stright away it fleu;
It flew as Roger's house it wad hev u hit,'
And ah ! this cruel Roger comes not yet !

I laited x last aw Hallow-Even lang,
For growen nuts the bussas neak’dy amang :

P Lie.

k Makes. I Done. m Mayest. n Must. o Sure.

9 Pulling 1 Nine. s Where lives. Forward. u Would have. * Sought. y Naked.

Wi' twea at last I met ; to aither nut
I gave a neame, and baith i' th' ingle2 put ;
Right bonnily he burnt, nor flinched a bit,
And ah ! this cruel Roger comes not yet!

Turnips ae Saturday I paired, and yella
A pairing sav'd, my sweet-heart's neame to tell ;
Slap fell it on the fleer, aw ran to view
And cawtb it like a C. but cawt not true ;
For nought, I's seer, but R. the scrawl wad fit,
And ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet!

A fortune-teller leately com about,
And my twea guid King Gweorge's I powt out;
Baith, baith, (and was not that a pity !) went,
And yet I cannot caw them badly spent;
She sign do a bonny lad and a large kit,
And ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet !

When t' other night the bride was put to bed,
And we wad try whea's turn was neest' to wed,
Oft owr the shoulder flung the stocking fell,
But not yene half the mark, except mysell ;
I on her feace directly meade it bit,
And ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet!

c Foretold,

z Fire.
d. Next.

a Whole.
e One.

b Called.
f Hit.

But what need I to fash& me any mair,
He'll be obleeged, avoid he't ne'er sae sare,
To come at last ; its own'd," it seems, to be,
And, weel I waite, what's own'd.yen cannot flee,
Or sud he never come and thur i fulfil,
Sud cruel Roger pruive sae cruel still,
I mun not, like a fuil, gang fast aw day
And kest mysell just wittenly away.

She said, and softly slipping cross the floor,
With easy fingers oped the silent door :
Thrice to her head she rais'd the luncheon brown,
Thrice lick'd her lips, and three times laid it down;
Purpos'd at length the very worst to prove,
'Twas easier sure to die of ought than love.

The Poet's Petition.

Ir Phoebus his Poet's petition would crown,
I'd ask a retreat in a snug country town,
Near which a clear stream in a valley should glide,
With fountains and meadows and groves by its
A competent fortune should be my next call,
Too great for contempt, and for envy too small ;
I would work, not for need, but my fancy to please,
With various enjoyment of labour and ease.

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.

9 Facher, Fr.

h Destined.

i These.

A friend of like temper and honesty tried,
Should double my joys and my sorrows divide,
Bụt far from my cottage let beauty remove,
Nor poison my innocent pleasures with love.

At town I or seldom or never would come,
Unless when no subject of satire's at home

; Or (since sweetest pleasures the soonest will cloy) To give a new relish to surfeiting joy.

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.

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