ike yours, till it's birstled (scorched) and sung (singed) like a
sheep's. Jist gie me a haud o' the taings, an' I s' set my sock to my
ain min'."

Peter gave up the tongs at once, and the young fellow proceeded to put
the share in the fire, and to work the bellows.

"Ye'll never mak ony thing o' 't that gait," said Peter, as he took the
tongs from his hand, and altered the position of the share for him. "Ye
wad hae 'it black upo' ae side and white upo' the ither. Noo ca (drive)
steady, an' dinna blaw the fire aff o' the forge."

But when it came to the anvil part of the work, Peter found so many
faults with the handling and the execution generally, that at length
the lad threw down the tongs with a laugh and an oath intermingled,
saying:

"Ye can mak' potty o' 't yersel, than, Peter.--Ye jist min' me o' the
Waesome Carl."

"What's that o' 't, Rory, man?"

"Ow! naething but a bit sang that I cam' upo' the ither day i' the neuk
o' an auld newspaper."

"Lat's hear't," said Peter. "Sing't, Rory. Ye're better kent for a guid
sang than for settin' socks."

"I canna sing 't, for I dinna ken the tune o' 't. I only got a glimp'
o' 't, as I tell ye, in an auld news."

"Weel, say't, than. Ye're as weel kent for a guid memory, as a guid
sang."

Without more preamble, Rory repeated, with appropriate gesture,

THE WAESOME CARL.

There cam a man to oor toon-en',
An' a waesome carl was he;
Wi' a snubbert nose, an' a crookit mou',
An' a cock in his left ee.
And muckle he spied, and muckle he spak';
But the burden o' his sang
Was aye the same, and ower again:
There's nane o' ye a' but's wrang.
Ye're a' wrang, and a' wrang,
And a'thegither a' wrang;
There's no a man aboot the town,
But's a'thegither a' wrang.

That's no the gait to bake the breid,
Nor yet to brew the yill;
That's no the gait to haud the pleuch,
Nor yet to ca the mill.
That's no the gait to milk the coo,
Nor yet to spean the calf;
Nor yet to fill the girnel-kist--
Ye kenna yer wark by half.
Ye're a' wrang, &c.

The minister was na fit to pray,
And lat alane to preach;
He nowther had the gift o' grace,
Nor yet the gift o' speech.
He mind 't him o' Balaam's ass,
Wi' a differ ye may ken:
The Lord he open'd the ass's mou'
The minister open'd 's ain.
He's a' wrang, &c.

The puir precentor cudna sing,
He gruntit like a swine;
The verra elders cudna pass
The ladles till