"Ye'll never mak ony thing o' 't that gait," said Peter, as he took the tongs from his hand, and altered the position of the share for him. "Ye wad hae 'it black upo' ae side and white upo' the ither. Noo ca (drive) steady, an' dinna blaw the fire aff o' the forge." But when it came to the anvil part of the work, Peter found so many faults with the handling and the execution generally, that at length the lad threw down the tongs with a laugh and an oath intermingled, saying: "Ye can mak' potty o' 't yersel, than, Peter.--Ye jist min' me o' the Waesome Carl." "What's that o' 't, Rory, man?" "Ow! naething but a bit sang that I cam' upo' the ither day i' the neuk o' an auld newspaper." "Lat's hear't," said Peter. "Sing't, Rory. Ye're better kent for a guid sang than for settin' socks." "I canna sing 't, for I dinna ken the tune o' 't. I only got a glimp' o' 't, as I tell ye, in an auld news." "Weel, say't, than. Ye're as weel kent for a guid memory, as a guid sang." Without more preamble, Rory repeated, with appropriate gesture, THE WAESOME CARL. There cam a man to oor toon-en', An' a waesome carl was he; Wi' a snubbert nose, an' a crookit mou', An' a cock in his left ee. And muckle he spied, and muckle he spak'; But the burden o' his sang Was aye the same, and ower again: There's nane o' ye a' but's wrang. Ye're a' wrang, and a' wrang, And a'thegither a' wrang; There's no a man aboot the town, But's a'thegither a' wrang. That's no the gait to bake the breid, Nor yet to brew the yill; That's no the gait to haud the pleuch, Nor yet to ca the mill. That's no the gait to milk the coo, Nor yet to spean the calf; Nor yet to fill the girnel-kist-- Ye kenna yer wark by half. Ye're a' wrang, &c. The minister was na fit to pray, And lat alane to preach; He nowther had the gift o' grace, Nor yet the gift o' speech. He mind 't him o' Balaam's ass, Wi' a differ ye may ken: The Lord he open'd the ass's mou' The minister open'd 's ain. He's a' wrang, &c. The puir precentor cudna sing, He gruntit like a swine; The verra elders cudna pass The ladles till his min'. And for the rulin' elder's grace, It wasna worth a horn; He didna half uncurse the meat, Nor pray for mair the morn. He's a' wrang, &c. And aye he gied his nose a thraw, And aye he crookit his mou'; And aye he cockit up his ee, And said, "Tak' tent the noo." We leuch ahint oor loof (palm), man, And never said him nay: And aye he spak'--jist lat him speik! And aye he said his say: Ye're a' wrang, &c. Quo' oor guidman: "The crater's daft; But wow! he has the claik; Lat's see gin he can turn a han' Or only luik and craik. It's true we maunna lippen till him-- He's fairly crack wi' pride; But he maun live, we canna kill him-- Gin he can work, he s' bide." He was a' wrang, &c.