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Then sometimes, ere they flit their doup,
They'll ablins' a' their siller coup
For liquor clear frae cutty stoup,

To weet their wizzen, An' swallow ower a dainty soup,

For fear they gizzen.2

A' ye wha canna staun sae sicker,
Whan twice you've toom'd the big-ars'd

bicker,

Mix caller oysters wi' your liquor,

An' I'm your debtor. If greedy priest or drowthy vicar

Will thole it better.

BRAID CLAITH.

Ye wha are fain to hae your name
Wrote i' the bonny book o' Fame,
Let Merit nae pretension claim

To laurel'd wreath,
But hap ye weel, baith back an' wame,
In gude Braid Claith.
He that some ells of this may fa'
An' slae-black hat on pow like snaw,
Bids bauld to bear the gree awa'
Wi' a' this graith,
When bienly clad wi' shell fu' braw
O' gude Braid Claith.

Waesuck 3 for him wha has nae feck o't! For he's a gowk they're sure to geck at, A chiel that ne'er will be respeckit,

While he draws breath,
Till his four quarters are bedeckit
Wi' gude Braid Claith.

On Sabbath-days, the barber spark,
Whan he has done wi' scrapin wark,
Wi' siller broachie in his sark,

Gangs trigly, faith!
Or to the Meadows, or the Park,
In gude Braid Claith.

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Weel might ye trow, to see them there, That they to shave your haffits1 bare, Or curl an' sleek a pickle hair,

Would be right laith,

Whan pacing wi' a gawsy air

In gude Braid Claith.

If ony mettl'd stirrah green 3
For favour frae a lady's een,

He maunna care for bein' seen

Before he sheath

His body in a scabbard clean

O' gude Braid Claith.
For gin he come wi' coat thread-bare,
A feg for him she winna care,
But crook her bonny mou' fu' sair,

An' scauld him baith:

Wooers shou'd ay their travel spare

Without Braid Claith.

Braid Claith lends fouk an unco heeze,
Maks mony kail-worms butterflies,
Gies mony a doctor his degrees

For little skaith ;
In short, you may be what you please
Wi' gude Braid Claith.

For tho' ye had as wise a snout on
As Shakespeare or Sir Isaac Newton,
Your judgment fouk wou'd hae a doubt on,
I'll tak my aith,

Till they cou'd see ye wi' a suit on
O' gude Braid Claith.

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For Jamie cam' back, and your cheek it Wha wadna be tempted, my love, to win grew white;

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

saw;

"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.

thee?"

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JOHN LOWE.

1750-1798.

SELDOM has the dark cloud of sorrow, 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

cudbright, and, at the age of fourteen, is 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

sipation, which brought him to want Then Mary laid her down to sleep,

and an untimely grave in 1798.

Lowe wrote several other songs, all of which are now forgotten. His claim to the credit of "Mary's Dream," which received some slight touches from a reforming hand, has been called in question, on what grounds we know not, for we never heard of any other author to whom it has been attributed. Burns, during his tour in Galloway, visited the spot where Lowe is said to have composed it, and appeared as if spell-bound by the association. In a note to "Mary's Dream," in Cromek's Select Scotish Songs, he says, Lowe - whom he names Alexander Lowe-" wrote another beautiful song, called 'Pompey's Ghost. He appears to have been a man of many accomplishments, but of infirm resolution and principles, and, like most of the tuneful tribe, was ill fitted to buffet the billows of life.

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MARY'S DREAM.

The moon had climbed the highest hill
That rises o'er the source of Dee,
And from its eastern summit shed
Her silver light on tower and tree:

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, When, soft and low, a voice was heard, Saying, "Mary, weep no more for me!"

She from her pillow gently raised
And saw young Sandy shivering stand,
With visage pale and hollow ee.
"O! Mary dear, cold is my clay;
It lies beneath a stormy sea;

Her head, to ask who there might be,

Far, far from thee I sleep in death :
So, Mary, weep no more for me!
"Three stormy nights and stormy days
We tossed upon the raging main ;
And long we strove our bark to save,
But all our striving was in vain.
Even then, when horror chilled my blood,

My heart was filled with love for thee:
The storm is past, and I'm at rest;
So, Mary, weep no more for me!

"O! maiden dear, thyself prepare ;

We soon shall meet upon that shore Where love is free from doubt and care, And thou and I shall part no more!" Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled, No more of Sandy could she see; But soft the passing spirit said,

"Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!"

ANDREW SCOTT.

1757-1839.

ANDREW SCOTT is a real peasant poet, who, though he has traversed outside of his rural occupations for themes to his homely muse, has succeeded best in describing the bright side (10)

of the farmer's lot. He has shown equal judgment in selecting its poetical aspects, as in placing those he has illustrated in a poetical setting.

Scott was born at Bowden, in Rox

2 R

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.

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."

RURAL CONTENT;

OR, THE MUIRLAND FARMER.
I'm now a gude farmer, I've acres o' land,
An' my heart aye loups light when I'm
viewin' o't,

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,

He died in 1839, at the patriarchal age of 82, and was buried in the Church- An' whan the sky lowrs, I'm aye sure o' yard of Bowden.

a' show'r

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, anʼ 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,

the leas,

An' they'll soon can assist at the plowin' o't.

slopin' hill,

An' the sun shines sae bonnily beamin'

on't;

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Nor did he thole his wife's upbraidin'
For bein' fou.

A cauler burn o' siller sheen
Ran cannily out owre the green,
And whan our gutcher's drouth had been
To bide right sair

He loutit down an' drank bedeen 3
A dainty skair.4

His bairns had a' before the flood
A langer tack o' flesh an' blood,
An' on mair pithy shanks they stood
Than Noah's line,
Wha still hae been a feckless brood
Wi' drinking wine.

The fuddlin Bardies now-a-days
Rin maukin5 mad in Bacchus' praise,
An' limp and stoiter through their lays,
Anacreontic,

While ilk his sea of wine displays
As big's the Pontic.

My Muse will nae gae far frae hame,
Or scour a' airths to hound for fame;
In troth the jillet ye might blame
For thinking on't,
When eithly she can find the theme

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This is the name that doctors use Their patient's noddles to confuse; Wi' simples clad in terms abstruse, They labour still,

In kittle words to gar ye roose1

Their want o' skill.

But we'll hae nae sic clitter-clatter,
An' briefly to expound the matter,
It shall be ca'd guid Cauler Water,
Than whilk I trow,

Few drugs in doctors' shops are better
For me or you.

Though joints be stiff as ony rung,
Your pith wi' pain be sairly dung,
Be you in Cauler Water flung

Out owre the lugs,

"Twill mak ye souple, swack, and young, Withouten drugs.

Though cholic or the heart-scad teaze us, Or ony inward dwaam2 should seize us, It masters a' siç fell diseases,

That would ye spulzie,
And brings them to a canny crisis
Wi' little tulzie.

Wer't nae for it the bonny lasses
Would glow'r nae mair in keeking glasses,
An' soon the dint o' a' the graces

That aft conveen
In gleefu' looks and bonny faces,
To catch our een.

The fairest then might die a maid,
An' Cupid quit his shooting trade,
For wha thro' clarty masquerade

Could then discover,
Whether the features under shade
Were worth a lover?

As simmer rains bring simmer flow'rs,
And leaves to clead the birkin bow'rs,
Sae beauty gets by cauler show'rs
Sae rich a bloom,

As for estate or heavy dow'rs,

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