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How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring While o'er their heads the hazels hing,
hills,
The little birdies blithely sing,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear Or lightly flit on wanton wing,

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LUATH.

Trowth, Cæsar, whyles they're fasht eneugh;

A cotter howkin' in a sheugh,
Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dike,
Baring a quarry, and siclike;
Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans,
And nought but his han' darg to keep
Them right and tight in thack and rape.

And when they meet wi' sair disasters,
Like loss o' health or want o' masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
And they maun starve o' cauld and hunger;
But how it comes I never kenn'd yet,
They're maistly wonderfu' contented:
And buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.

CÆSAR.

But then to see how ye're neglectit,
How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit!
Lord, man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by poor folk
As I wad by a stinkin' brock.
I've noticed, on our laird's court-day,
And mony a time my heart's been wae,
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash,
How they maun thole a factor's snash:
He'll stamp and threaten, curse and swear,
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear;
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble,
And hear it a', and fear and tremble !
I see how folk live that hae riches;
But surely poor folk maun be wretches!

LUATH.

They're no sae wretched's ane wad think, Though constantly on poortith's brink : They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, The view o't gies them little fright.

Then chance and fortune are sae guided,
They're aye in less or mair provided;
And though fatigued wi' close employment,
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.

The dearest comfort o' their lives,
Their grushie weans and faithfu' wives;
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a' their fire-side;
And whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy
Can mak the bodies unco happy ;
They lay aside their private cares,
To mind the Kirk and State affairs:
They'll talk o' patronage and priests,
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts;
Or tell what new taxation's comin',
And ferlie at the folk in Lun'on.
As bleak-faced Hallowmas returns,
They get the jovial ranting kirns,
When rural life o' every station
Unite in common recreation;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social Mirth
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth.

That merry day the year begins,
They bar the door on frosty wins;
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntin pipe and sneeshin mill
Are handed round wi' right guid will;
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse,
The young anes rantin' through the
house,-

My heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.

Still it's ower true that ye hae said,
Sic game is now ower aften play'd.
There's mony a creditable stock
O' decent, honest, fawsont folk,
Are riven out baith root and branch,
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favour wi' some gentle master,
Wha aiblins thrang a parliamentin'
For Britain's guid his saul indentin'.

on Highland tradition. It was acted at Edinburgh, through the influence, and under the oversight, of her friend Sir Walter Scott. The only other of her plays that was put upon the stage was "De Montfort," which was brought out at Drury Lane in 1800.

Clyde, her father, Dr James Baillie, being minister of that parish. He was afterwards professor of divinity in the University of Glasgow. Her mother was a sister of the celebrated anatomists, Drs John and William Hunter, after the former of whom Joanna was named. Few places in Scotland are a meeter On the marriage of Dr Baillie, his "nurse for a poetic child" than the mother and sisters went for some time romantic surroundings of Bothwell to Colchester; but about 1801, they Castle, the once famous stronghold of fixed their abode permanently at Hampthe Douglasses; and here and at Hamil- stead Heath. Here their mother died ton, about three miles distant, Joanna in 1806, and here the two affectionate Baillie spent the first ten years of her sisters continued to reside and receive life. In 1778, her father died at Glas- the visits of almost all their contemgow; and in 1784, she went with her porary celebrities till Joanna's death, mother and her sister Agnes to live on the 23d February 1851. Agnes with her brother, Dr Mathew Baillie, lived for other ten years, dying in 1861, who succeeded to the London house and in the hundredth year of her age. the practice of his uncle, Dr William | Joanna's Address to Agnes on her Hunter, on the death of that well-known Birthday is one of the most simply physician. Here, in 1790, she published | beautiful pictures of sisterly affection anonymously her first volume of poems, which met with a very indifferent reception. In 1798, she published her first series of dramas, with the view of illustrating her theory of the action of the passions, each passion being the subject of a tragedy and a comedy. Her theory, which advocates stricter adherence to nature in the dramatic art, she maintains in a lengthy introduction, which shows her to have been an original and vigorous thinker. This venture, which was also anonymous, created an immediate impression, and a second edition was required in a short time. In 1802, she continued the subject in a second volume; and in a third, in 1812. In 1804, she produced a volume of miscellaneous dramas, and in 1810 the "Family Legend," a tragedy founded

extant.

LINES TO AGNES BAILLIE ON
HER BIRTHDAY.

Dear Agnes, gleamed with joy and dashed with tears,

O'er us have glided almost sixty years Since we on Bothwell's bonnie braes were

seen,

By those whose eyes long closed in death

have been

Two tiny imps, who scarcely stooped to gather

The slender harebell or the purple

heather;

No taller than the foxglove's spinky stem,
That dew of morning studs with silvery

gem.

LINES TO AGNES BAILLIE ON HER BIRTHDAY. 661

Then every butterfly that crossed our view

With joyous shout was greeted as it flew; And moth, and lady-bird, and beetle bright,

In sheeny gold, were each a wondrous sight.

Then as we paddled barefoot, side by side,

Among the sunny shallows of the Clyde, Minnows or spotted parr with twinkling fin,

Swimming in mazy rings the pool within, A thrill of gladness through our bosoms sent,

Seen in the power of early wonderment.

A long perspective to my mind appears, Looking behind me to that line of years; And yet through every stage I still can

trace

Thy visioned form, from childhood's morning grace

To woman's early bloom-changing, how soon!

To the expressive glow of woman's noon; And now to what thou art, in comely age, Active and ardent. Let what will engage Thy present moment-whether hopeful seeds

In garden plat thou sow, or noxious weeds From the fair flower remove; or ancient lore

In chronicle or legend rare explore,
Or on the parlour hearth with kitten play,
Stroking its tabby sides; or take thy way
To gain with hasty steps some cottage
door,

Well may it please me, in life's latter scene, To think what now thou art and long to me hast been.

"Twas thou who wooedst me first to look Upon the page of printed book,

That thing by me abhorred, and with address

Didst win me from my thoughtless idle

ness,

When all too old become with_bootless haste,

In fitful sports the precious time to waste, Thy love of tale and story was the stroke At which my dormant fancy first awoke, And ghosts and witches in my busy brain Arose in sombre show, a motley train. This new-found path attempting, proud

was I

Lurking approval on thy face to spy, Or hear thee say, as grew they roused attention,

"What is this story all thine own invention !"

Then, as advancing through this mortal span,

Our intercourse with the mixed world began;

Thy fairer face and sprightlier courtesy-
A truth that from my youthful vanity
Lay not concealed did for the sisters
twain,

Where'er we went, the greater favour

gain;

While but for thee, vexed with its tossing

tide,

I from the busy world had shrunk aside. On helpful errand to the neighbouring And now, in later years, with better grace,

poor

Active and ardent, to my fancy's eye

Thou still art young, in spite of time gone by.

Thou help'st me still to hold a welcome place

With those whom nearer neighbourhood has made

Though oft of patience brief, and temper The friendly cheerers of our evening

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Shall feel such loss, or mourn as I shall Is no like a chap that's heard at e'en.

mourn?

And if I should be fated first to leave This earthly house, though gentle friends

may grieve,

And he above them all, so truly proved A friend and brother, long and justly loved,

There is no living wight, of woman born, Who then shall mourn for me as thou wilt mourn.

Thou ardent, liberal spirit ! quickly feeling

The touch of sympathy and kindly dealing

But the docksie auld laird of the Warlock

Glen,

Wha waited without, half-blate, half

cheery,

And lang'd for a sight o' his winsome

dearie,

Raised up the latch, and cam crousely ben.

His coat it was new, and his o'erlay

was white,

His mittins and hose were cozie and bein; But a wooer that comes in braid daylight

With sorrow or distress, for ever sharing Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en. The unhoarded mite, nor for to-morrow

caring

Accept, dear Agnes, on thy natal day,
An unadorned, but not a careless lay.
Nor think this tribute to thy virtues paid
From tardy love proceeds, though long
delayed;

Words of affection, howsoe'er expressed, The latest spoken still are deemed the best :

Few are the measured rhymes I now may write;

These are, perhaps, the last I shall indite.

He greeted the carlins and lasses sae braw,

And his bare lyart pow sae smoothly he straikit,

And he looked about, like a body halfglaikit,

On bonnie sweet Nanny, the youngest of a'.

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