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Thrummy him thank'd, syne his gowd Untill a muckle purse he stew’d, And cram m‘d it in his exter ponch, An’ syne sought out his aiken croutch, Said fair ye weel, I maun awa, And see gin I get through the sna. Weel, fare ye well, reply‘d the Laird : But how comes it ye hanno’ shar’d Or gi’en your neiber o’ the money ? , by my saul, I, Sir, quoth Thrummy, When I the siller Sir, did win, To had in this wad he a sin.) fore that I the Ghaist had laid, he nasty beast had— -the bed, And sae my tale I here do end, hope no one it will offend : My muse will nae assist me ledger, he dorty jade sometimes does anger, thought her arice a gay smart lass, But now she’s come to sick a pass, That a’ my cudgelling and wheeping, Will, hardly wake her cut o’ sleeping,, plague her mair I winna try, it dight my pen and lay it by.

LIFE OF THOMAS ROMECLD, A HIGHWAYMAN.

ROMAS RUMDOLD, Lorn of creditable [a.