MATTHEW.
What, Gabriel! come swat thy ways down on the Sattle,
I lang for a bit of a crack;
Thy granson I sent owre the geate for some 'bacco--
The varment 'll niver come back!--
Nay, keep on thy hat: we heed nought about manners:
What news about your en' o' the town?
They say the king's badly; thur times gang but oddly;
The warl just seems turn'd upseyde down;
Ay, what alterations, and out--o'--way fashions,
Sin lal todlin callans were we!

GABRIEL.
O, Matthew! they've cutten the yeks and the eshes,
That grew owre anent the kurk waw!
How oft dud we lake just like wild things amang them;
But suin we, like them, mun lig low!
The schuil--house is fawn, where we beath larn'd our letters.
For tee, tou cud figure and write;
I mind what a monstrous hard task and a lickin
Tou gat when tou fit wi' Tom Wheyte;
Wherever yen ranges, the chops and the changes
Oft mek a tear gush frae my e'e.

MATTHEW.
Then, Gabey, thou minds when we brak Dinah' worchet--
Stown apples bairns aw think are sweet--
Deuce tek this bad 'bacco! de'il bin, it 'll draw nin,
Yen mud as weel smuik a wet peat!--
What, yonder's Rob Donaldson got a lang letter,
And some say it talks of a peace;
But that 'll nit happen i' thy time or my time,
Widout we can get a new lease.
Here, lass! bring some yell in, drinkin's nae failin,
Let's moisten our clay ere we dee.

GABRIEL.
Ay, Matt! what they buried auld Glaister last Monday--
Peer Jwosep! we went to ae schuil!--
He married deef Marget, the Gammelsby beauty,
A silly proud cat--witted fuil:
Ae son pruiv'd a taistrel, and brak up at Lunnon,
But Jwosep he gat aw to pay;
Anudder they said, turn'd out nit quite owre honest,
Sae gat off to Botany Bay.--
O, man! this frost pinches, and kills fwok by inches,
It's een meade a cripple o' me!

MATTHEW.
Ay, Gabey! it's lang sin thou married Ann Lawson;
Tou minds when we off like the win
Frae kurk to the yell--house?--What, I was weel mounted,
And left them aw twea mile behin.
Then there was Young Gabey, our weyfe was his goddy,
A brave murry cursnin we had;
We kent nought o' tea, or sec puzzen i' thar days,
But drank tweyce--brew'd yell till hawf mad:
There was Kitt and Ned Neilson, and Dan and Wat Wilson,
They've aw geane and left thee and me.

GABRIEL.
There's ae thing, guid Matthew, I've lang thought of axin,
And that tou mun grant if tou can;
When I's stiff and cauld, see me decently coffin'd,
And laid down aseyde my weyfe Ann.
My peer granson Jwosep, he thrives and he grows up,
O luik till him when I's low laid!
Mind he gaes to the kurk, and sticks weel till his larnin,
And get him a bit of a trade;
The neybors will bless thee, it wunnet distress thee,
And happy auld Gabriel can dee.

MATTHEW.
Keep up thy heart, Gabey! nae guid comes o' grievin;
Aye laugh at the warl, if thou'd thrive;
I've buried three weyves, and mun e'en hev anudder,
I's quite young and rash--eighty--five;
Then sec a hard drinker, a wustler, a feghter,
A cocker I've been i' my time;
And as for a darrak, in barn or in meadow,
Whea match'd me, when just i' my prime?
I ne'er thought o' whinin, or gowlin or pinin--
We're wise when we chearfu' can be.

GABRIEL.
Nay but, neighbour Matthew, when ninety lang winters
Ha'e bent you, and powder'd the pow,
We grane i'th' nuik, wi' few friens or acquaintance,
And just fin we cannot tell how:
For me, l's sair fash'd wi' a cough and the gravel,
And ae single tuith i' my head;
Then, sin my peer bairn they tuik off for a sowdger,
I've wish'd I were nobbet weel dead;--
The house uncle ga'e me, the squire's e'en ta'en frae me;
There's nought but the warkhouse for me!

MATTHEW.
My fadder, God rust him! wi'pinchin and pleenin,
Screap'd up aw the gear he cud get;
I've been a sad deevil, and spent gowd i' gowpens,
But still ha'e a hantle left yet:
Come gi'es thy hand, Gabey! tou's welcome as may be,
My purse and my ambrie to share;
We'll talk of auld times,--eat, drink, and be merry:
Thy granson sall get what we spare:--
Then leet thy pipe, Gabey! tou's welcome as may be,
They's ne'er mek a beggar o' thee!