THE LASS OF WINCOMBLEE.

Now all ye lilies hang your heeds, Ye roses bloom nae mair, Ye tulips all, put on your weeds, All, posies may despair. For not a lass on all Tyneside, Frae Stella to the sea, Can marrow Moll the evergreen Of bonny Wincomblee. For not a lass, &c. Her een shine like a davy-lamp, Or like a summer's day— Her voice sae like the after-damp, Near teuk my breath away Her cherry cheeks like sugar sweet, Or honey frae the bee; But sweeter far than byeth o' these Is Moll of Wincomblee. Her feet are like twe bits ov cork, When running iv a reel— Tiv "Shiver the Rags" and "Off she goes," She can cut an' shuffle weel; Like a lady fine, on Sunday neets She'll tyek a walk wi' me, Call at Scrogg House, round Byker fields, And back by Walker Kee. When Jinny Pit it has full wark, We settled for te wed— The fiddle sal play frae break o' day, Till we get snug in bed; Wi' backy and yell ye's hae your fill, Singin hinnies to your tea— Wiv a dance we'll finish the merriest neet Ere was seen at Wincomblee. Tho' time rolls on, and so it may, As Tyne rolls to the sea, Fresh as an evergreen is Moll Of bonny Wincomblee.