O Thou dread Power, who reign'st above, I know thou wilt me hear, When for this scene of peace and love, I make this prayer sincere. The hoary Sire-the mortal stroke, Long, long be pleas'd to spare; To bless this little filial flock, And show what good men are. She, who her lovely offspring eyes

Gude pity me, because I'm little! For though I am anelf o' mettle, An' can, like ony wabster's shuttle, Jinkthere orhere, Yet, scarce as lang's a gude kail-whittle, I'm uncoqueer. An' now Thou kens our waefu' case; For Geordie's jurrwe're in disgrace, Because we stang'd her through the place, An' hurt her spleuchan; For whilk