1046.-MARY'S DREAM.

The moon had climb'd the highest hill
Which rises o'er the source of Dee,
And from the eastern summit shed

Her silver light on tower and tree;
When Mary laid her down to sleep,

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,
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.
Far, far from thee I sleep in death;
So, Mary, weep no more for me!

Three stormy nights and stormy days
We toss'd upon the raging main;
And long we strove our bark to save,
But all our striving was in vain.
Even then, when horror chill'd my blood,
My heart was fill'd with love for thee:
The storm is past, and I 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 crow'd 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!"
Alex. Ross.-Born 1698, Died 1784.

My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;

I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I couldna win ;

Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee,

Said, "Jennie, for their sakes, Oh, marry

me!"

My heart it said nay, for I look'd for Jamie back;

But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wreck;

The ship it was a wreck-why didna Jamie dee ?

Or why do I live to say, Wae's me?

My father argued sair: my mother didna speak;

But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break;

Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea;

And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four,
When, sitting sae mournfully at the door,
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think
it he,

Till he said, "I'm come back for to marry thee."

Oh, sair did we greet, and muckle did we

say;

We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away:

I wish I were dead! but I'm no like to dee;

And why do I live to say, Wae's me?

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;

I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;

But I'll do my best a gude wife to be,
For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me.
Lady Anne Barnard.-Born 1750, Died 1825.

1048. THE FLOWERS OF THE
FOREST.

I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day;

But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At buchts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,

The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae; Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and . sabbing,

Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away.

Oh, fickle Fortune,

Why this cruel sporting ?

Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day? Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, Nae mair your frowns can fear me ;

For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Mrs. Cockburn.-Born 1679, Died 1749.

1050.-TULLOCHGORUM.

Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cried,
And lay your disputes all aside;
What signifies 't for folks to chide

For what's been done before them?
Let Whig and Tory all agree,
Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,
Let Whig and Tory all agree

To drop their Whigmegmorum.
Let Whig and Tory all agree
To spend this night with mirth and glee,
And cheerfu' sing alang wi' me
The reel of Tullochgorum.

O, Tullochgorum's my delight;
It gars us a' in ane unite;

And ony sumph that keeps up spite,
In conscience I abhor him.
Blithe and merry we's be a',
Blithe and merry, blithe and merry,
Blithe and merry we 's be a',

And mak' a cheerfu' quorum.
Blithe and merry we's be a',
As lang as we hae breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',
The reel of Tullochgorum.
There need na be sae great a phrase
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays;
I wadna gie our ain strathspeys

For half a hundred score o' 'em.
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Douff and dowie, douff and dowie,
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Wi' a' their variorums.
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Their allegros, and a' the rest,
They canna please a Highland taste,
Compared wi' Tullochgorum.

Let warldly minds themselves oppress
Wi' fear of want, and double cess,
And sullen sots themselves distress
Wi' keeping up decorum.
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,

Like auld Philosophorum ?
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,
And canna rise to shake a fit

At the reel of Tullochgorum ?

1053. THE FARMER'S INGLE. Whan gloamin grey out owre the welkin keeks;

Whan Batie ca's his owsen to the byre; Whan Thrasher John, sair dung, his barndoor steeks,

An' lusty lasses at the dightin' tire; What bangs fu' leal the e'enin's coming cauld,

An' gars snaw-tappit Winter freeze in vain ;

Gars dowie mortals look baith blithe an' bauld,

Nor fley'd wi' a' the poortith o' the plain; Begin, my Muse! and chaunt in hamely strain.

Garr'd Scotish thristles bang the Roman bays;

For near our crest their heads they dought na raise.

The couthy cracks begin whan supper's owre; The cheering bicker gars them glibly gash O' Simmer's showery blinks, an' Winter's

sour,

Whase floods did erst their mailin's produce hash.

'Bout kirk an' market eke their tales gae on; How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his

bride;

An' there, how Marion, for a bastard son, Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride; The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide.

The fient a cheep 's amang the bairnies now; For a' their anger's wi' their hunger gane: Ay maun the childer, wi' a fastin' mou,

Grumble an' greet, an' mak an unco maen. In rangles round, before the ingle's low, Frae gudame's mouth auld warld tales they hear,

O' warlocks loupin round the wirrikow: O' ghaists, that win in glen an kirkyard drear,

Whilk touzles a' their tap, an' gars them shake wi' fear!

For weel she trows, that fiends an' fairies be Sent frae the deil to fleetch us to our il!; That ky hae tint their milk wi' evil ee;

An' corn been scowder'd on the glowin' kiln.

O mock nae this, my friends! but rather

mourn,

Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear; Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return,

And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear; The mind's ay cradled whan the grave is

near.

Yet Thrift, industrious, bides her latest days, Though Age her sair-dow'd front wi' runcles

wave;

Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays; Her e'enin stent reels she as weel's the lave.

On some feast-day, the wee things buskit braw,

Shall heese her heart up wi' a silent joy, Fu' cadgie that her head was up an' saw Her ain spun cleedin' on a darlin' oy; Careless though death shou'd mak the feast her foy.

In its auld lerroch yet the deas remains, Where the gudeman aft streeks him at his

ease;

A warm and canny lean for weary banes
O' labourers doylt upo' the wintry leas.
Round him will baudrins an' the collie come,
To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu' ee.
To him wha kindly flings them mony a crum

O' kebbuck whang'd, an' dainty fadge to prie;

This a' the boon they crave, an' a' the fee.

Frae him the lads their mornin' counsel tak: What stacks he wants to thrash; what rigs to till;

How big a birn maun lie on bassie's back,

For meal an' mu'ter to the thirlin' mill. Niest, the gudewife her hirelin' damsels bids Glowr through the byre, an' see the hawkies bound;

Tak tent, case Crummy tak her wonted tids, An' ca' the laiglen's treasure on the ground;

Whilk spills a kebbuck nice, or yellow pound.

Then a' the house for sleep begin to green,

Their joints to slack frae industry a while; The leaden god fa's heavy on their e'en,

An' hafflins steeks them frae their daily toil:

The cruizy, too, can only blink and bleer;

The reistit ingle 's done the maist it dow; Tacksman an' cottar eke to bed maun steer, Upo' the cod to clear their drumly pow, Till wauken'd by the dawnin's ruddy glow.

Peace to the husbandman, an' a' his tribe, Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year!

Lang may his sock and cou'ter turn the gleyb, An' banks o' corn bend down wi' laded car!

May Scotia's simmers ay look gay an' green; Her yellow ha'rsts frae scowry blasts decreed!

May a' her tenants sit fu' snug an' bien,

Frae the hard grip o' ails, and poortith freed;

An' a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours succeed!

Robert Fergusson.-Born 1751, Died 1774.

1054.-TO THE TRON-KIRK BELL.

Wanwordy, crazy, dinsome thing,
As e'er was framed to jow or ring!
What gar'd them sic in steeple hing,
They ken themsel;
But weel wat I, they couldna bring
Waur sounds frae hell.

Fleece-merchants may look bauld, I trow,
Sin' a' Auld Reekie's childer now
Mann stap their lugs wi' teats o' woo,
Thy sound to bang,

And keep it frae gaun through and through
Wi' jarrin' twang.

Your noisy tongue, there's nae abidin't;
Like scauldin' wife's, there is nae guidin't;
When I'm 'bout ony business eident,
It's sair to thole;

To deave me, then, ye tak a pride in't,
Wi' senseless knoll.

Oh! were I provost o' the town,
I swear by a' the powers aboon,
I'd bring ye wi' a reesle down;
Nor should you think
(Sae sair I'd crack and clour your crown)
Again to clink.

For, when I've toom'd the meikle cap,
And fain wald fa' owre in a nap,
Troth, I could doze as sound's a tap,
Were't no for thee,

That gies the tither weary chap
To wauken me.

I dreamt ae night I saw Auld Nick: Quo' he-"This bell o' mine's a trick, A wily piece o' politic,

A cunnin' snare,

To trap fouk in a cloven stick,
Ere they're aware.

As lang's my dautit bell hings there,
A' body at the kirk will skair;
Quo' they, if he that preaches there
Like it can wound,

We downa care a single hair
For joyfu' sound."

If magistrates wi' me would 'gree,
For aye tongue-tackit should you be ;
Nor fleg wi' anti-melody

Sic honest fouk,
Whase lugs were never made to dree
Thy dolefu' shock.

But far frae thee the bailies dwell,
Or they would scunner at your knell;
Gie the foul thief his riven bell,
And then, I trow,
The byword hauds, "The diel himsel
Has got his due."

Robert Fergusson.-Born 1751, Died 1774.

1055.-A SUNDAY IN EDINBURGH. On Sunday, here, an alter'd scene O' men and manners meets our een. Ane wad maist trow, some people chose To change their faces wi' their clo'es, And fain wad gar ilk neibour think They thirst for guidness as for drink; But there's an unco dearth o' grace, That has nae mansion but the face, And never can obtain a part In benmost corner o' the heart. Why should religion mak us sad, If good frae virtue 's to be had?

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