Then by there came twa gentlemen,

At twelve o'clock at night;

And they could neither see house nor hall,
Nor coal nor candle-light.

"Now whether is this a rich man's house?
Or whether is it a poor ?"

But ne'er a word would ane o' them speak,
For barring of the door.

And first they ate the white puddings,
And then they ate the black;

Though muckle thought the goodwife to hersel',
Yet ne'er a word she spak.

Then said the one unto the other;
"Here man, take my knife;
Do ye tak aff the auld man's beard,
And I'll kiss the goodwife.

"But there's nae water in the house,
And what shall we do then?
What ails you at the pudding bree
That boils into the pan ?"

Oh up then started our goodman,

An angry man was he;

"Will ye kiss my wife before my face,

And sca'd me wi' pudding bree?"

Then up then started our goodwife,

66

Gi'ed three skips on the floor;

Goodman, you've spoken the foremost word!

Get up and bar the door!"

NATURE AND FORTUNE.

NATURE and Fortune, blithe and gay,

To pass an hour or two,

In frolic mood agreed to play

At "What shall this man do?"

"Come, I'll be judge then," Fortune cries,
"And therefore must be blind;"

Then whipped a napkin round her eyes,
And tied it fast behind.

Nature had now prepared her list
Of names on scraps of leather;
Which rolled, she gave them each a twist,
And hustled them together.

Thus mixed, whichever came to hind

She very surely drew;

Then bade her sister give command
For what that man should do.

'Twould almost burst one's sides to her What strange commands she gave ; That Cibber should the laurel wear,

At length, when Stanhope's name was come, Dame Nature smiled, and cried;

"Now tell me, sister, this man's doom, And what shall him betide."

"That man," said Fortune, "shall be one

Blest both by you and me :

"Nay, then," quoth Nature, "let's have done; Sister, I'm sure you see."

'AT CHURCH.

LAST Sunday at St. James's prayers,
The prince and princess by,

I, dressed in all my whale-bone airs,
Sat in a closet nigh.

I bowed my knees, I held my book,
Read all the answers o'er;

But was perverted by a look

Which pierced me from the door.

High thoughts of Heaven I came to use
With the devoutest care;

Which gay young Strephon made me lose,

And all the raptures there.

He stood to hand me to my chair,

And bowed with courtly grace;

But whispered love into my ear,
Too warm for that grave place.
"Love, love," said he, "by all adored,
My tender heart has won'

,,

But I grew peevish at the word,
And bade he would be gone.
He went quite out of sight, while I
A kinder answer meant ;
Nor did I for my sins that day
By half so much repent.

KISSING.

As I went to the wake that is held on the green,
I met with young Phoebe, as blithe as a queen;
A form so divine might an anchorite move,

And I found (though a clown) I was smitten with love:
So I asked for a kiss, but she, blushing, replied,
"Indeed, gentle shepherd, you must be denied."

"Lovely Phoebe," says I, "don't affect to be shy,
I vow I will kiss you-here's nobody by."
"No matter for that," she replied, "'tis the same;
For know, silly shepherd, I value my fame;
So pray let me go, I shall surely be missed;
Besides, I'm resolved that I will not be kissed.

"Lord bless me !" I cried, "I'm surprised you refuse;
A few harmless kisses but serve to amuse;
The month it is May, and the season for love,
So come, my dear girl, to the wake let us rove.'
"No, Damon," she cried, "I must first be your wife;
You then shall be welcome to kiss me for life."

"Well, come then," I cried, "to the church let us go, But after, dear Phoebe must never say No." "Do you prove but true," she replied, "you shall find I'll ever be constant, good-humoured, and kind." So I kiss when I please, for she ne'er says she won't; And I kiss her so much that I wonder she don't.

THERE WAS AN OLD WOMAN.

THERE was an old woman, as I've heard tell,
She went to market her eggs for to sell;
She went to market all on a market-day;
And she fell asleep on the king's highway.

There came by a pedlar whose name was Stout,
He cut her petticoats all round about;
He cut her petticoats up to the knees,

Which made the old woman to shiver and freeze.

When this little woman first did wake,
She began to shiver, and she began to shake:
She began to wonder, and she began to cry,
"Lauk-a-mercy on me, this is none of I!

"But if it be I, as I do hope it be,

I've a little dog at home, and he'll know me ;
If it be I, he'll wag his little tail,

And if it be not I, he'll loudly bark and wail!"

Home went the little woman all in the dark ;
Up got the little dog, and he began to bark;
He began to bark, so she began to cry,
"Lauk-a-mercy on me, this is none of I!"

THE MERRY MAN.

I AM a young fellow
Who loves to be mellow,

To drink and be merry is all my delight;
I often get frisky

By tippling good whisky

With jovial companions from morning to night.
I never took pleasure

In hoarding up treasure;

The sight of a miser I cannot endure,
Who always is griping,

And sharping, and biting,

And laying out schemes for to plunder the poor. Ri fal-da-riddle lah, &c.

Of the beggarly miser

I am a despiser;

The fruit of his labour he never enjoys;

His heirs for his money,

Impatient of honey,

Are waiting, and hate him, while with it he toys. His frame is complaining,

For want of sustaining;

His limbs are decrepit from hunger and cold;
Instead of good liquor,

To make his pulse quicker,

He's gloating and doating on that idol called gold,

As for me, while I'm able,

At the head of a table,

Set me down of good whisky a full water-stand,

Where each clever toper
May drink like the pope, or

May toast to his friends with a bumper in hand.
By the side of that jorum,

Like a Justice of Quorum,

I'll preside full of state in my holiday clothes;
In winter or summer,

With a rollicking rummer,

A pipe for to smoke, and a jug at my nose.

"Come, drawer, this spirit

Of yours has some merit.

Sweet piper, come squeeze up your leather and play; And hand him the pitcher,

It makes music richer,"

Thus we'll drink and carouse to the dawning of day.
I hold them but asses
Who wait to fill glasses,-

Such muddling and fuddling's unworthy of man;
It only is wasting

The time that is hasting,

Commend me to those that will fugle the can.

When stopped in my toddy
By death seizing my body,

No crocodile tears shall be shed at my wake;
While there I am lying,

No counterfeit crying,

No moans, I desire, shall be made for my sake
I've no taste for squalling,

Or old women's bawling,

Who string nonsense together and call it a keen.
Who only are selling

Their yelping and yelling

For some one perhaps that they never have seen.

But of whisky a cruiskeen
To fill up each loose skin,

Let all have to toast to my journey up-hill;
And three jolly pipers

To tune up for the swipers,

While each boy honestly swallows his fill.
Then a blackthorn cudgel

For each, should they grudge ill

To anoint one another, and none to control :
Nor let them be down-hearted

For him that's departed,

But end their disputes in a full-flowing bowl.
The next morning early,

When daylight 'tis fairly,