She has an ee, she has but ane,
The cat has twa the very colour;
Five rusty teeth forbye a stump,

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller; A whiskin beard about her mou',

Her nose and chin they threaten ither.
Sic a wife, &c.

She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd,
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter ;
She's twisted right, she's twisted left,
To balance fair in ilka quarter;
She has a hump upon her breast,
The twin o' that upon her shouther.
Sic a wife, &c.

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits,

An' wi' her loof her face a-washin ; But Willie's wife is nae sae trig,

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion ; Her walie nieves like midden-creels, Her face wad fyle the Logan-water. Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wadna gi'e a button for her.

MY SPOUSE NANCY.

BURNS. Air-"My jo Janet."

HUSBAND, husband, cease your strife,
Nor longer idly rave, sir ;
Though I am your wedded wife,

Yet I am not your slave, sir.

"One of two must still obey,

Nancy, Nancy;

Is it man or woman, say,

My spouse Nancy?"

If 'tis still the lordly word,
Service and obedience,
I'll desert my sovereign lord,
And so, good bye, allegiance.

"Sad will I be so bereft,
Nancy, Nancy;

Yet I'll try to make a shift,
My spouse Nancy."

My poor heart then break it must,
My last hour I'm near it ;

When you lay me in the dust,
Think, think, how you will bear it.

"I will hope and trust in heaven,
Nancy, Nancy;

Strength to bear it will be given,
My spouse Nancy."

Well, sir, from the silent dead
Still I'll try to daunt you;
Ever round your midnight bed,
Horrid sprites shall haunt you.

"I'll wed another like my dear
Nancy, Nancy;

Then all hell will fly for fear,

My spouse Nancy."

"Your humorous English song to suit Jo Janet' is inimitable." Thomson, in a Letter to Burns.

WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T.

BURNS. Air-" Whistle o'er the lave o't."

FIRST When Maggie was my care,
Heaven I thought was in her air;
Now we're married-speir nae mair-
Whistle o'er the lave o't.

Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,
Bonnie Meg was Nature's child—
Wiser men than me's beguiled;
Whistle o'er the lave o't.

How we live, my Meg and me,
How we love and how we 'gree,
I carena by how few may see;
Whistle o'er the lave o't.
Wha I wish were maggots' meat,
Dish'd up in her winding-sheet,
I could write-but Meg maun see't-
Whistle o'er the lave o't.

TO DAUNTON ME.

Chiefly by Burns.

THE bluid-red rose at Yule may blaw,
The summer lilies bloom in snaw,
The frost may freeze the deepest sea;
But an auld man shall never daunton me.
To daunton me, and me sae young,
Wi' his fause heart and flatterin' tongue,
That is the thing ye ne'er shall see ;
For an auld man shall never daunton me.

For a' his meal, for a' his maut,
For a' his fresh beef and his saut,

For a' his gowd and white monie,

An auld man shall never daunton me.

His gear may buy him kye and yowes,
His gear may buy him glens and knowes;
But me he shall not buy nor fee;
For an auld man shall never daunton me.

He hirples twa-fauld, as he dow,

Wi' his teethless gab and auld bauld pow,
And the rain rins doun frae his red-blear'd ee:

That auld man shall never daunton me.

The original of this song will be found among "Hogg's Jacobite Relics." subject is a favourite one with the early and later Scottish song-writers.

The

DUNCAN GRAY.

BURNS.

DUNCAN Gray cam' here to woo,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

On blythe Yule night when we were fu',

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Maggie coost her head fu' high,

Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,

Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't;

Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,

Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',

Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Time and chance are but a tide,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't;

Slighted love is sair to bide,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,

For a haughty hizzie dee?

She may gae to-France for me!

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

How it comes let.doctors tell,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't;

Meg grew sick as he grew well,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Something in her bosom wrings,

For relief a sigh she brings;

And, oh, her een they speak sic things!

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan was a lad o' grace,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't;

Maggie's was a piteous case,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't:

Duncan could na be her death,

Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;

Now they're crouse and canty baith,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Founded upon an old and licentious ballad of the same name, but having nothing in common with it but the chorus and the title. "Duncan Gray," says Burns to Thomson, "is that kind of light-horse gallop of an air which precludes sentiment. The ludicrous is its ruling feature." "Duncan," says Thomson in reply, "is a lad of grace, and his humour will endear him to every body." The Hon. A. Erskine, in a letter to the poet, says, "Duncan Gray possesses native genuine humour. lowpin o'er a linn,' is a line that of itself should make you immortal."

Spak o'

CONTENTIT WI' LITTLE.

BURNS. Air-" Lumps o' pudding."

CONTENTED Wi' little and cantie wi' mair,
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care,

I gi'e them a skelp, as they're creeping alang,
Wi' a cog o' guid swats and an auld Scottish sang.

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought;
But man is a sodger, and life is a faught:

My mirth and good humour are coin in my pouch,
And my
freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa',
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a';
When at the blythe end of our journey at last,
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has pass'd?

Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way;
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae ;
Come ease or come travail, come pleasure or pain,
My warst word is, "Welcome, and welcome again!"