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Nae langer she wept, her tears were a' While Jeanie supported his head as he spent ; Despair it was come, and she thought it The tears trickled down upon auld Robin
She thought it content, but her cheek it
And she droop'd like a lily broke down by the hail.
Her father and mother observed her decay; "What ails ye, my bairn?" they oft-times would say ;
"Ye turn round your wheel, but you come little speed,
For feeble's your hand, and silly's your thread."
She smiled when she heard them, to banish their fear,
But wae looks the smile that is seen through a tear,
And bitter's the tear that is forced by a love
Which honour and virtue can never
Her father was sad, and her mother was
But silent and thoughtfu' was auld Robin Gray;
He wander'd his lane, and his face it grew lean,
Like the side of a brae where the torrents have been.
Nae questions he speir'd her concerning her health,
He looked at her often, but aye 'twas by stealth;
When his heart it grew grit, and often he feigned
To gang to the door to see if it rained.
"I've wrang'd her," he said, "but I kent it ower late;
I've wrang'd her, and sorrow is speeding my date;
But a's for the best, since my death will soon free
A faithfu' young heart that was ill matched wi' me.
"I lo'ed and courted her mony a day, The auld folks were for me, but still she said nay;
I kentna o' Jamie, not yet o' her vow ;— In mercy forgi'e me, 'twas I stole the cow!
"I cared not for crummie, I thought but o' thee;
I thought it was crummie stood 'twixt you and me;
While she fed your parents, oh! did you
You never would marry wi' auld Robin Gray?
"But sickness at hame, and want at the door
You gied me your hand while your heart it was sore:
He gaed to his bed, but nae physic would I saw it was sore, why took I her take,
And often he said, "It is best, for her Oh, that was a deed to my shame o'er the land!
"Now truth, soon or late, comes to open daylight!
"Oh, doubtna," said Jeanie, "forgi'en he will be,.
For Jamie cam' back, and your cheek it Wha wadna be tempted, my love, to win
White, white grew your cheek, but aye
true unto me.
Oh, Jeanie, I'm thankfu'-I'm thankfu' to dee!
"Is Jamie come here yet ?" and Jamie he
"I've injured you sair, lad, so I leave you my a';
Be kind to my Jeanie, and soon may it be! Waste no time, my dauties, in mournin' for me."
They kiss'd his cauld hands, and a smile o'er his face
Seem'd hopefu' of being accepted by grace.
The first days were dowie, while time
But saddest and sairest to Jeanie of a' Was thinking she couldna be honest and right,
Wi' tears in her ee, while her heart was sae light.
But nae guile had she, and her sorrow away,
The wife of her Jamie, the tear couldna stay;
A bonnie wee bairn-the auld folks by the fire
Oh, now she has a' that her heart can desire !
SELDOM has the dark cloud of sor- | cudbright, and, at the age of fourteen, is row, slightly tinged with superstition, been more beautifully illumined by the "silver light " of poetry than in the short poem of "Mary's Dream." Its author, John Lowe, was a student of divinity when he wrote it, a tutor in the family of M'Ghie of Ards, in Galloway. The incident on which the poem is founded was the drowning at sea of a young surgeon, named Alexander Miller, who was in love with Mary, one of M'Ghie's daughters.
Lowe was the eldest son of the gardener at Kenmore Castle, in Kirk
said to have been apprenticed to a weaver. While at Ards, he fell in love with one of the Misses M'Ghie; but having failed to obtain a church at home, he emigrated to America, and was for sometime tutor in the family of a brother of General Washington. He afterwards opened an academy at Fredericksburg, which did not prove successful. He then joined the Episcopal Church, and obtained a charge in that connection. He afterwards married a Virginian lady, with whom he lived unhappily, and soon gave way to dis
ODE TO THE BEE.
Herds, blythesome tune your canty reeds,
The trees in simmer-cleading drest,
Blythely to skim on wanton wing
Then gang your ways through height an' howe,
Seek caller haugh or sunny knowe,
In winter he might fend fu' bauld,
Yet thir, alas! are antrin1 fouk
That lade their scape2 wi' winter stock. Auld age maist feckly glowers right
Upo' the ailings of the poor,
Wha hope for nae comforting, save
Frae this the human race may learn Reflection's hiney'd draps to earn, Whether they tramp life's thorny way, Or thro' the sunny vineyard stray.
Instructive bee! attend me still, Owre a' my labour sey 3 your skill: For thee shall hiney-suckles rise, Wi' lading to your busy thighs, An' ilka shrub surround my cell, Whareon ye like to hum an' dwell: My trees in bourachs 4 owre my ground Shall send ye frae ilk blast o' wind:
burghshire, in 1757, of very humble parents, and at the age of twelve was employed in herding cattle. Having got possession of a copy of Ramsay's Gentle Shepherd, he was stirred to attempt verse himself. He enlisted in the 80th Regiment, and served in the war in America, where, during the leisure of camp-life, he kept up his intimacy with the lyric muse. When the war was ended, he procured his discharge, and returned to his native parish, where he settled as an agricultural labourer for the remainder of his days.
In 1805, he first published a collection of his poems, of which a second edition, with additions, appeared in 1808. His last volume of poetry, Poems on various Subjects, was published at Edinburgh in 1826.
He died in 1839, at the patriarchal age of 82, and was buried in the Churchyard of Bowden.
as she sung;" on which the poet remarks
"Now sound sleeps the dead in his bed of cauld clay,
For death still the dearest maun sever; But now he's forgot, and his widow's as gay, And his fiddle's as merry as ever."
OR, THE MUIRLAND FARMER.
An' I hae servants at my command,
An' twa dainty cowts for the plowin' · o't.
My farm is a snug ane, lies high on a muir,
The muir-cocks an' plivers aft skirl at my door,
An' whan the sky lowrs, I'm aye sure o'
To moisten my land for the plowin' o't.
Leeze me on the mailin that's fa'n to my share,
It taks sax muckle bowes for the sawin' o't:
I've sax braid acres for pasture, an' mair,
An' a dainty bit bog for the mawin' o't. A spence an' a kitchen my mansion-house gies,
Andrew Scott's character appears to have been imbued with a considerable share of the "Rural Content" which his muse celebrates; yet though the poem of this title is his best, some of his other pieces, as "Symon and Janet," contain glimpses of quiet humour, which evince the possession of keen observing powers and knowledge of human nature. The last stanza of "The Fiddler's Widow" is a specimen of his pawky humour. It needs to be premised, that the defunct's widow and fiddle may be said to have sworn to sorrow for the rest of their existence, when a knowing hand, who had the art My biggin stands sweet on this south
of handling both with equal skill, “took down the fiddle as dowie it hung," and "the young widow dighted her cheeks
I've a cantie wee wifie to daut whan I Twa bairnies, twa callans, that skelp ower please,
An' they'll soon can assist at the plowin' o't.
An' the sun shines sae bonnily beamin'
An' past my door trots a clear prattlin' rill Frae the loch, whar the wild ducks are
An' on its green banks, on the gay simmer days,
My wife trips barefit, a-bleachin' her claes,
An' on the dear creature wi' rapture I gaze,
While I whistle an' sing at the plowin' o't.
Now welcome gude weather, or wind, or come weet,
Or bauld ragin' winter, wi' hail, snaw, or sleet,
Nae mair can he draigle my crap 'mang his feet,
Nor wraik his mischief, and be spoilin o't.
An' on the douf days, when loud hurri canes blaw,
Fu' snug i' the spence I'll be viewin' o't,
To tank amang farmers I hae muckle An' jink the rude blast in my rush-theekit
But I maunna speak high when I'm tellin' o't,
How brawly I strut on my shelty to ride, Wi' a sample to show for the sellin' o't. In blue worset boots that my auld mither span
I've aft been fu' vanty sin' I was a man, But now they're flung by, an' I've bought cordovan,
And my wifie ne'er grudged me a shillin' o't.
Sae now, whan to kirk or to market I gae, My weelfare what need I be hidin' o't? In braw leather boots shining black as
I dink me to try the ridin' o't.
Last towmond I sell'd off four bowes o'
An' thankfu' I was, for the victual was dear,
An' I came hame wi' spurs on my heels shinin' clear,
I had sic gude luck at the sellin' o't.
When fields are seal'd up frae the plowin' o't.
My bonnie wee wifie, the bairnies, an' me, The peat-stack and turf-stack our Phoebus shall be,
Till day close the scoul o' its angry e'e, An' we'll rest in gudę hopes o' the plowin' o't.
SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING.
An' whan the year smiles, an' the laverocks sing,
My man Jock an' me shall be doin' o't; He'll thrash, and I'll toil on the fields in
An' turn up the soil at the plowin' o't. An' whan the wee flow'rets begin then to blaw,
The laverock, the peasweep, and skirlin' pickmaw
Shall hiss the bleak winter to Lapland awa',
Then we'll ply the blythe hours at the sawin' o't.
Now hairst-time is o'er, an' a fig for the An' whan the birds sing on the sweet
My rent's now secure for the toilin' o't; My fields are a' bare, and my craps in th'
My new crap I'll keek at the growin' o't; Whan hares niffer love 'mang the green brairdit corn,
An' I'm nae mair in doubts o' the spoilin An' dew-drops the tender blade showin'