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MY DEAR LITTLE LASSIE.

My dear little lassie, why, what's a' the matter?
My heart it gangs pittypat, winna lie still;
I've waited, and waited, an' a' to grow better,
Yet, lassie, believe me, I'm aye growing ill:
My head's turn'd quite dizzy, an' aft when I'm speaking
I sigh, an' am breathless, an' fearfu' to speak;
I gaze aye for something I fain wad be seeking,
Yet, lassie, I kenna weel what I wad seek.

Thy praise, bonnie lassie, I ever could hear of,
And yet when to ruse ye the neebour lads try,
Tho' its a' true they tell ye, yet never sae far off
I could see 'em ilk ane, an' I canna tell why.
Whan we tedded the hayfield, I raked ilka rig o't,
And never grew wearie the lang simmer day;
The rucks that ye wrought at were easiest biggit,
And I fand sweeter scented aroun' ye the hay.

In har'st, whan the kirn-supper joys mak' us cheerie,
'Mang the lave of the lasses I pried yere sweet mou;
Dear save us! how queer I felt whan I cam' near ye,

My breast thrill'd in rapture, I couldna tell how. Whan we dance at the gloamin it's you I aye pitch on, And gin ye gang by me how dowie I be; There's something, dear lassie, about ye bewitching, That tells me my happiness centres in thee.

I copied this happy and delicate song from a manuscript belonging to my friend Dr. Darling. It is sung to the tune of Bonnie Dundee.

THE FISHER'S WELCOME

We twa hae fish'd the Kale sae clear,
An' streams o' mossy Reed,

We've tried the Wansbeck an' the Wear,

The Teviot an' the Tweed;

An' we will try them ance again

When summer suns are fine,

An' we'll thraw the flie thegither yet

For the days o' lang syne.

'Tis mony years sin' first we met
On Coquet's bonny braes,
An' mony a brither fisher's gane,

An' clad in his last claes;
An' we maun follow wi' the lave,

Grim Death he heuks us a',
But we'll hae anither fishing bout
Afore we're ta'en awa'.

For we are hale an' hearty baith,

Tho' frosty are our pows,

We still can guide our fishing graith,

An' climb the dykes and knowes; We'll mount our creels an' grip our gads, An' thraw a sweeping line;

An' we'll hae a plash amang the lads,
For the days o' lang syne.

Tho' Cheviot's top be frosty still,
He's green below the knee,

Sae don your plaid an' tak your gad,

An' gang awa' wi' me.

Come busk your flies, my auld

We're fidgin' a' fu' fain,

compeer,

We've fish'd the Coquet mony a year,
An' we'll fish her owre again.

An' hameward when we toddle back,
An' night begins to fa',

When ilka chiel maun tell his crack,
We'll crack aboon them a':-
When jugs are toom'd an' coggies wet,
I'll lay my loof in thine,

We've shown we're good at water yet,
An' we're little warse at wine.

We'll crack how mony a creel we've fill'd,

How mony a line we've flung, How many a ged an' sawmon kill'd

In days when we were young.

We'll gar the callants a look blue,

An' sing anither tune;

They're bleezing aye o' what they'll do--
We'll tell them what we've dune.

This clever song is the work of an Englishman; and had it come from a Caledonian bard, the costume of language, and the spirit of the "North Countrie," could not have been more perfect. It is one of the annual Fisher's Garlands which Newcastle sends out to the world, and to which the graver of Bewick adds such charms of truth and nature as seldom accompany lyric poetry. In reading the song-a trout stream, slightly swelled by an upland shower, gushes out upon one's fancy-a rod comes into our hand-we cast a careful line upon the rippling water-we watch the well-dissembled flies, and our patience is rewarded by casting "A trout bedropped with crimson hail," upon the grassy bank. Burns, who went to angle in the Nith with a huge fur cap on, and a highland broadsword by his side, knew little of the art compared to my excellent friend of Newcastle.

THE BLUE BIRD.

When winter's cold tempests and snows are no more,
Green meadows and brown furrow'd fields reappearing,
The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,
And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steering;
When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing,
When red glow the maples so fresh and so pleasing;
O then comes the blue-bird, the herald of spring,
And hails, with his warblings, the charms of the season-

Then loud piping frogs make the marshes to ring,
Then warm glows the sunshine, and fine is the weather;
The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,
And spice-wood and sassafras budding together:
O then to your gardens ye housewives repair,
Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure;
The blue bird will chant from his box such an air
That all your hard toils will be gladness and pleasure.

He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree,
The red flowering peach and the apple's sweet blossoms;
He snaps up destroyers wherever they be,

And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms:

He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours,

The worms from their beds where they riot and welter ; His song and his services freely are ours,

And all that he asks is in summer a shelter.

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