Then sometimes, ere they flit their doup, To weet their wizzen, An' swallow ower a dainty soup, For fear they gizzen.2 A' ye wha canna staun sae sicker, 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 To laurel'd wreath, 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, On Sabbath-days, the barber spark, Gangs trigly, faith! 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 He maunna care for bein' seen Before he sheath His body in a scabbard clean O' gude Braid Claith. An' scauld him baith: Wooers shou'd ay their travel spare Without Braid Claith. Braid Claith lends fouk an unco heeze, For little skaith ; For tho' ye had as wise a snout on Till they cou'd see ye wi' a suit on 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?" 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. MARY'S DREAM. The moon had climbed the highest hill 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 Her head, to ask who there might be, Far, far from thee I sleep in death : My heart was filled with love for thee: "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. 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; Nor did he thole his wife's upbraidin' A cauler burn o' siller sheen He loutit down an' drank bedeen 3 His bairns had a' before the flood The fuddlin Bardies now-a-days While ilk his sea of wine displays My Muse will nae gae far frae hame, 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, Few drugs in doctors' shops are better Though joints be stiff as ony rung, 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, Wer't nae for it the bonny lasses That aft conveen The fairest then might die a maid, Could then discover, As simmer rains bring simmer flow'rs, As for estate or heavy dow'rs, |