IX.

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."_