But thus, poor thing, to lose her life, Aneath a bleedy villain's knife, I 'm really fleyt that our guidwife Will never win aboon 't ava: O! a' ye bards benorth Kinghorn, Call your muses up and mourn, Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn Stown frae 's, and fell'd and a'!

Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c.

O! WHY SHOULD OLD AGE SO MUCH WOUND US?

TUNE--_"Dumbarton Drums."_

I.

O! why should old age so much wound us?[2]

There is nothing in it all to confound us: For how happy now am I, With my old wife sitting by, And our bairns and our oys all around us; For how happy now am I, &c.

II.

We began in the warld wi' naething, And we 've jogg'd on, and toil'd for the ae thing; We made use of what we had, And our thankful hearts were glad, When we got the bit meat and the claithing; We made use of what we had, &c.

III.

We have lived all our lifetime contented, Since the day we became first acquainted: It 's true we 've been but poor, And we are so to this hour, But we never yet repined or lamented; It 's true we 've been but poor, &c.

IV.

When we had any stock, we ne'er vaunt.i.t, Nor did we hing our heads when we want.i.t; But we always gave a share Of the little we could spare, When it pleased a kind Heaven to grant it; But we always gave a share, &c.

V.

We never laid a scheme to be wealthy, By means that were cunning or stealthy; But we always had the bliss-- And what further could we wiss?-- To be pleased with ourselves, and be healthy; But we always had the bliss, &c.

VI.

What though we cannot boast of our guineas?

We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies; And these, I 'm certain, are More desirable by far Than a bag full of poor yellow steinies; And these, I am certain, are, &c.

VII.

We have seen many wonder and ferly, Of changes that almost are yearly, Among rich folks up and down, Both in country and in town, Who now live but scrimply and barely; Among rich folks up and down, &c.

VIII.

Then why should people brag of prosperity?

A straiten'd life we see is no rarity; Indeed, we 've been in want, And our living 's been but scant, Yet we never were reduced to need charity; Indeed, we 've been in want, &c.

IX.

In this house we first came together, Where we 've long been a father and mither; And though not of stone and lime, It will last us all our time; And I hope we shall ne'er need anither; And though not of stone and lime, &c.

X.

And when we leave this poor habitation, We 'll depart with a good commendation; We 'll go hand in hand, I wiss, To a better house than this, To make room for the next generation; We 'll go hand in hand, I wiss, &c.

Then why should old age so much wound us? &c.

[2] This tune requires O to be added at the end of each of the long lines, but in reading the song the O is better omitted.

STILL IN THE WRONG.

I.

It has long been my fate to be thought in the _wrong_, And my fate it continues to be; The wise and the wealthy still make it their song, And the clerk and the cottar agree.

There is nothing I do, and there 's nothing I say, But some one or other thinks wrong; And to please them I find there is no other way, But do nothing, and still hold my tongue.

II.

Says the free-thinking Sophist, "The times are refined In sense to a wondrous degree; Your old-fashion'd faith does but fetter the mind, And it 's _wrong_ not to seek to be free."

Says the sage Politician, "Your natural share Of talents would raise you much higher, Than thus to crawl on in your present low sphere, And it 's _wrong_ in you not to aspire."

III.

Says the Man of the World, "Your dull stoic life Is surely deserving of blame?

You have children to care for, as well as a wife, And it 's _wrong_ not to lay up for them."

Says the fat Gormandiser, "To eat and to drink Is the true _summum bonum_ of man: Life is nothing without it, whate'er you may think, And it 's _wrong_ not to live while you can."

IV.

Says the new-made Divine, "Your old modes we reject, Nor give ourselves trouble about them: It is manners and dress that procure us respect, And it 's _wrong_ to look for it without them."

Says the grave peevish Saint, in a fit of the spleen, "Ah! me, but your manners are vile: A parson that 's blythe is a shame to be seen, And it 's _wrong_ in you even to smile."