O DEAR Mother now I'm marry'd, I could wish I'd longer tarried, For my wife does vow and swear, That she will the breeches wear.

O dear Son, go home and love her, And to me no more discover, If she does in the least rebel, Take a stick and bang her well.

As he went home a neighbour met him, And said something for to fret him, Neighbor, neighbor, I''l tel! you, Who I saw at your house just now.

There I saw that Will the Weaver, And your wife both close together, Stand at the threshold of the door, They went in and Isaw no more.

He went home like one in wonder, And at the door did knock like thunder: "Who comes here? the Weaver cry'd, "It is my husband, you must hide-"

Up the chimney then he scamper'd, While in the house her husband enter'd, When she began to make her moan, "I'm by myself and all alone.

"While you've been taking all your plea- sure, "Spending all your gold and treasure, "Leaving me poor girl alone, "By myself to make my moan."

"O my dear wife, be not in a passion, "Id have you follow my direction; "Draw me some beer, for I am dry," Like a kind wife she did comply.

While she was gone 'twas his endeavour, For to find out Will the Weaver; He hunts the chamber round and round, But not a soul could there be found.

Then he came down like one amazed, And up the chimney then he gazed. Where he espy'd that wretched soul, Setting across the chimney pole,

Aha! thinks he, its now Ive found you, I will neither hang or drown you But I will smother you with smoke, This he thought, but little spoke.

Then he built up a roaring fire, Much against his wife's desire, She cry'd out, as I'm your wife, Take him down and spare his life.

Then off the chimney pole he took him, And so merrily he shook him, Crying out at every stroke, "Come here no more to stop my smoke."

Was ever any Chimney Sweeper, Half so black as Will the Weaver, Hands and face and clothes likewise, He sent him home in that disguise.

THE BLUE BELLS OF SCOTLAND.

OH! where? and oh, where is you Highland laddie gone? Oh! where? and oh, where is your High- land laddie gone? He's gone to fight the French, for King George upon the throne,

And its oh, in my heart, I wish him safe at home. He's gone to fight the French, for King George upon the throne. And its oh in my heart, I wish him safe at home.

Oh where? and oh where, did your High- land laddie dwell? He dwelt in merry Scotland, at the sign of the blue bell, And it's oh, in my heart, I love my lad- die well.

In what clothes? in what clothes? is your Highland laddie clad? His bonnet of the Saxon green, and his waistcoat of a plaid, And it's oh, in my heart, I love my High- land lad.

Suppose, and suppose, that your High- land lad should die, The bagpipes should play o'er him, and I'd sit me down and ery, And its oh, in my heart, I wish he may not die: