But I can guess, ye're gawn to gather dew:"

She scour'd awa, an' said, "What's that to you?
"Then fare ye weel, Meg Dorts, and e'en's ye like,"
I careless cry'd, and lap in o'er the dyke;
I trow, when that she saw, within a crack,
She cam with a right thieveless errand back;
Misca'd me first, then bade me hound my dog,
To wear up three waff ewes stray'd on the bog.

Dear Roger, when your joe puts on her gloom,
Do ye sae too, and never fash your thumb,
Seem to forsake her, soon she'll change her mood;
Gae woo anither, and she'll gang clean wud.

Roger. Kind Patie, now fair fa' your honest heart,
Ye're ay sae cadgy, and hae sic an art

To hearten ane: for now, as clean's a leek,
Ye've cherish'd me since ye began to speak.
Sae, for your pains, I'll mak you a propine,
(My mother, rest her saul! she made it fine;)
A tartan plaid, spun of good hawslock woo,
Scarlet an' green the sets, the borders blue:
Wi' spraings like gowd an' siller, cross'd wi' black;
I never had it yet upon my back.

Weel are ye wordy o't, wha hae sae kind

Redd up my ravel'd doubts, and clear'd my mind.

Patie. Weel, haud ye there—and since ye've frankly made

To me a present o' your bran new plaid,

My flutes be yours, and she too that's sae nice,
Shall come a-will, gif ye'll tak my advice,

Roger. As ye advise, I'll promise to observ't;
But ye maun keep the flute, ye best deserv't.
Now tak it out, and gies a bonny spring-

For I'm in tift to hear ye play and sing.

Patie. But first we'll tak a turn up to the height.

And see gif a' our flocks be feeding right:

By that time bannocks, and a shave o' chcese
Will make a breakfast that a laird might please;
Might please the daintiest gabs, were they sae wise
To season meat wi' health instead of spice.
When we hae taen the grace-drink at the well,
I'll whistle syne, and sing t'ye like mysell.

PARTING.

SPEAK on, speak thus, and still my grief,
Haud up a heart that's sinking under

These fears, that soon will want relief,
When Pate maun frae his Peggy sunder:

A gentler face, and silk attire,

A lady rich, in beauty's blossom,
Alake, poor me! will now conspire

To steal thee frae thy Peggy's bosom.

Nae mair the shepherd, to excell

The rest, whase wit made them to wonder, Shall now his Peggy's praises tell:

Ah! I can die, but never sunder. Ye meadows where we aften strayed,

Ye banks where we were wont to wander, Sweet-scented rucks round which we play'd, You'll lose your sweets when we're asunder.

Again, ah! shall I never creep

Around the knowe wi' silent duty, Kindly to watch thee while asleep,

And wonder at thy manly beauty?

Hear, Heaven, while solemnly I vow,

Tho' thou shou'dst prove a wandering lover,

Thro' life to thee I shall prove true,

Nor be a wife to any other.

REV. ROBERT BLAIR.

1699-1746.

THE life of a Scottish country clergyman seldom presents materials for biography beyond the record of his active virtues. Blair was minister of Athelstaneford in Haddingtonshire, and was an accomplished gentleman as well as an amiable man. His poem The Grave has been one of the most popular in the English language, at least among the people of Scotland. Its stern tone of reflection, its vigorous and hard-featured diction, so different in its unforced simplicity from the strained grandeur of Young; and its sepulchral and terrible imagery, rank it among the most impressive of religious poems.