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 Thrummy him thank’d, and syae his gowd Intil a mickle purse he stow'd; An’ crzmm'd it in his oxter pouch, And syne sought out his oaken cruselt, Says Fare ye weel, I maun awa, in’ see gin I get through the snaw— Weel fare ye weel; replied the laird, But how comes it ye haena shar’d An’ gien your neibour o’ the money?- Na, by saul I, Sir, quo Thrummy, Then I the siller, sir, did win (To haud in this wad be a sin) Afore that I the ghaist had laid, The nasty beast had———the bed, And sae my tale I hear do end, I hope no one it will offend. My muse will nae assit me langer, The dorty jade sometimes does anger, I thought her ance a gay smart lass; But now she’s come to sic a pass, That a’ my cudgelling and wheeping Will hardly wake her out o' sleeping, To plague her mair I winna try, But dight my pea and lay it by.

A London Tailor, as 'tis said, By buckram, canvass, tape and thread,