Sin I furst work'd a sampleth at Biddy Forsyth's,
I ne'er saw the marrow o' Matthew Macree;
For down his braid back hing his lang yallow locks,
And he hes a cast wi' his bonny grey e'e;
Then he meks us aw laugh, on the stuil when he stands,
And acts like the players, and gangs wi' his hands,
And talks sec hard words as nit yen understands--
O, what a top scholar is Matthew Macree!

'Twas nobbet last Easter his cock wan the main,
I stuid i' the ring rejoicin to see;
The bairns they aw shouted, the lasses were fain,
And the lads o' their shou'ders bore Matthew Macree:
Then at lowpin he'll gang a full yard owre them aw,
And at rustlin, whilk o' them dare try him a faw?
And whee is't that aye carries off the fit--baw?
But the King of aw Cumberland, Mathew Macree

That time when he fit full two hours at the fair,
And lang Jemmy Smith gat a famish black e'e;
Peer Jemmy I yence thought wad never paw mair,
And I was reet sworry for Matthew Macree:
Then he wad shek the bull--ring, and brag the heale town,
And to feight, rin, or russle, he put down a crown;
Saint Gworge, the girt champion, o' fame and renown,
Was nobbet a waffler to Matthew Macree.

On Sundays, in bonny wheyte weastcoat when dress'd,
He sings i' the kurk, what a topper is he!
I hear his strang voice far abuin aw the rest,
And my heart still beats time to Matthew Macree.
Then his feyne eight--page ditties, and garlands sae sweet,
They mek us aw merry the lang winter neet,
But, when he's nit amang us, we never seem reet,
Sae fond are the lasses o' Matthew Macree.

My fadder he left me a house on the hill,
And I's get a bit lan sud my aunty dee,
Then I'll wed bonny Matthew whenever he will,
For gear is but trash widout Matthew Macree:
We'll try to shew girt fwok content in a cot,
And when in our last heame together we've got,
May our bairns and their neybors oft point to the spot
Where lig honest Matthew and Jenny Macree,