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But we know them to be Allan Cun- Let nane tell my father, ningham's—written, too, at a time Or my mither sae dear, when he was in the very humblest si- I'll meet them baith in heaven, tuation of life ; and we do not think

At the spring o' the year. that either Bowles, or Campbell, or

The two first poems which we have Wordsworth, has written any thing now quoted, were given to Mr Cromore wildly, and naturally, and so

mek (so he tells us) by Miss Jean

Walker, who also gave him, as a tralemnly pathetic. She's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie,

Mermaid," She's gane to dwall in heaven;

most beautiful ballad, which we shall Ye'r owre pure, quo' the voice o' God, quote by and by, and which is now an For dwalling out o' heaven !

avowed composition of Allan CunningO what'l she do in heaven, my lassie ? ham. We are greatly obliged to this O what'l she do in heaven?

amiable young lady, for bringing to She'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angel's light so much fine old poetry ; but sangs,

she cannot but know, that she first An' make them mair meet for heaven.

heard them all from the lips of that She was beloved by a', my la ssie,

ingenious poet. She was beloved by a';

In that part of this volume containBut an' angel fell in luve wi' her,

ing the Jacobite songs, we also trace An' took her frae us a'. Low there thou lies my lassie,

the pen of Allan Cunningham. Who

but himself and Miss Jean Walker ever Low there thou lies; A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird,

heard the following ballad previously Nor frae it will arise !

to the publication of these reliques ? Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie,

The sun rises bright in France,

And fair sits he ;
Fu' soon I'll follow thee;
Thou left me nought to covet ahin,'

But he has tint the blythe blink he had
But took gudeness sel' wi' thee.

In my ain countrie. I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie,

It's nae my ain ruin I looked on thy death-cold face ;

That weets ay my ee, Thou seemed a lilie new cut i' the bud,

But the dear Marie I left a-hin',

Wi' sweet bairnies three.
An' fading in its place.
I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie,

Fu' bonnolie lowed my ain hearth,
I looked on thy death-shut eye;

An' smiled my ain Marie ; An'a lovelier light in the brow of heaven

0, I've left a' my heart behind, Fell time shall ne'er destroy.

In my ain countrie. Thy lips were ruddie and calm, my lassie,

0 I am leal to high heaven,

An' it i'll be leal to me,
Thy lips were ruddie and calm ;

An' there I'll meet ye a' soon,
But gane was the holie breath o' heaven
To sing the evening Psalm.

Frae my ain countrie !

The “ Waes o’Scotland” is also mo-
There's naught but dust now mine, lassie,
There's naught but dust now mine;

dern. This we have always suspectMy saul's wi' thee i' the cauld grave,

ed, and we have occasion to know, An' why should I stay behin?!

that Mr Scott has ever been of the There is a little fragment, of only same opinion: the Ettrick Shepherd, three stanzas, which we also believe too, we see in a note to the first voto be modern-part of a song supposed lume of his collection of Jacobite songs, to be sung by a deserted maiden, and just published, smiles at the idea of which, whether owing to the singu- ihis being a real Jacobite ballad, and larly plaintive flow of the versification, pays a kind and generous complior to the extreme simplicity of the ment to its real author, whom he calls mourner's grief, which connects itself “ the ingenious Allan Cunningham, with the forms and seasons of external one of the brightest poetical geniuses nature, and with the first and most. that ever Scotland bred, yet who in awful of all human feelings, paternal that light has been utterly neglected.” and filial love, are to us beyond measure Whan I left thee, bonnie Scotland, affecting

Thou wert fair to see, Gane were but the winter cauld,

Fresh as a bonnie bride i' the morn And gane were but the snaw,

Whan she maun wedded be; I could sleep in the wild woods,

Whan I came back to thee, Scotland, Whare primroses blaw.

Upon a May-morn fair, Cauld's the snaw at my head,

A bonnie lass sat at our town-en',
And cauld at my feet,

Kaming her yellow hair.
And the finger o' death's at my een, “O hey! O hey!" sung the bonnie lass,
Closing them to sleep.

“ o hey! an' wac's me!

There's joy to the Whigs, an' land to the Ae sweet drap fell

on her strawberrie lip,

An' I kiss'd it aff I trow!

• O whare gat ye that leal maiden, An' nocht but wae to me!

Sae jimpy laced an' sma'? “O hey! O hey!” sung the bonnie lass, O whare got ye that young damsel, “ O hey! an' wae's me!

Wha dings our lasses a'?

O whare got ye that bonnie, bonnie lass, There's siccan sorrow in Scotland,

Wi' Heaven in her ee ! As een did never see.

O here's ae drap 'o' the damask wine;

Sweet maiden, will ye pree? “ O hey! O hey for my father auld !

Fu' white, white was her bonnie neck,
O hey! for my mither dear !

Twist wi' the satin twine,
An' my heart will burst for the bonnie lad But ruddie, ruddie grew her hawse,

While she supp'd the bluid-red wine.
Wha left me lanesome here !”

• Come, here's thy health, young stranger doo, I had na gane in my ain Scotland

Wha wears the gowden kame :-Mae miles than twa or three

This night will mony drink thy health,

And ken na wha to name. Whan I saw the head o' my ain father

Play me up Sweet Marie,' I cry'd, Coming up the gate to me.

An' loud the piper blew,“A traitor's head !and “a traitor's head!

But the fiddler play'd ay Struntum, strum,

And down his bow he threw. Loud bawled a bluidy lown :

• Here's thy kin' health i'the ruddie red wine, But I drew frae the sheath my glaive o' wier, Fair dame o' the stranger land ! An' strake the reaver down.

For never a pair o' een before

Could mar my good bow-hand. I hied me hame to my father's ha',

Her lips were a cloven hinney-cherrie, My dear auld mither to see ;

Sae tempting to the sight;

Her locks owre alabaster brows, But she lay 'mang the black izles

Fell like the morning light. Wi' the death-tear in her ee.

An' O! her hinney breath left her locks O wha has wrocht this bluidy wark ?

As through the dance she fiew, Had I the reaver here,

While luve laugh'd in her bonnie blue ec,

An' dwalt on her comely mou'.
I'd wash his sark in his ain heart blude, • Loose hings yere broider'd gowd garter,
And gie't to his dame to wear!

-Fair ladie, dare I speak ?
I hadna gane frae my ain dear hame

She, trembling, lift her silky hand

To her red, red flushing cheek. But twa short miles and three,

* Ye've drapp'd, ye've drapp'd yere broach o'gowd,

Thou Lord's daughter sie gay, Till up came a captain o' the Whigs,

The tears o'erbrimm'd her bonnie blue ee, Says, “ Traitor, bide ye me !"

"O coine, O come away !-I grippit him by the belt sae braid,

O maid, unbar the siller belt, It birsted i' my hand,

To my chamber let me win,

An' take this kiss, thou peasant youth, But I threw him frae his weir-saddle

I daur na let ye in. An' drew my burlie brand.

An’tak,' quo' she, 'this kame o' gowd, “ Shaw mercy on me," quo' the lown,

Wi' my lock o' yellow hair,

For meikie my heart forbodes to me, An' low he knelt on knee ;

I never maun meet ye mair!' But by his thie was my father's glaive, The next song we shall quote is preWhilk gude king Brus did gie.

faced by this somewhat suspicious An' buckled roun' him was the broider'd

looking notice. belt

“ A fairer specimen of romantic Scottish Whilk my mither's hands did weave, love than is contained in this song, is rarely My tears they mingled wi' his heart's blude,

to be met with. It was first introduced to An reeked upon my glaive.

Nithşdale and Galloway about thirty years I wander a' night ’mang the lands I own'd,

ago, by a lady whose mind was deranged. Whan a' folk are asleep,

She wandered from place to place, followed And I lie oure my father and mither's grave,

by some tamed sheep. The old people deAn hour or twa to weep !

scribe her as an amiable and mild creature. O fatherless, and mitherless,

She would lie all night under the shade of Without a ha' or hame,

some particular trec, with her sheep around I maun wander through my dear Scotland, her. They were as the ewe-lamb in the And bide a traitor's blame.

scripture parable ;—they lay in her bosom, There is in this volume, a ballad call- ate of her bread, drank of her cup, and ed “ The Lord's Marie,” which we

were unto her as daughters. Thus she also venture to ascribe almost wholly

wandered through part of England, and the to Allan Cunningham. It is founded low part of Scotland ; esteemed, respected, on a traditional story of a daughter of pitied, and wept for by all! She was wont

to sing this song unmoved, until she came the Lord Maxwell of Nithsdale, ac- to the last verse, and then she burst into companying in disguise a peasant to a tears. The old tree, under which she sat rustic dancing-tryste. There is no- with her sheep, is now cut down. The thing more interesting, or better illus- schoolboys always paid a sort of religious trative of ancient manners, in the

It never was the · dools,' Minstrelsy of the Border.

nor the but;' nor were the outs and The Lord's Marie has kepp'd her locks

ins, nor the hard-fought game of • EngUp wi' a gowden kame,

land and Scotland,' ever played about it : An' she has put on her net-silk hose,

but there, on fine Sabbath evenings, the old An'awa to the tryste has gane. O saft, saft fell the dew on her locks,

women sat down and read their bibles; the An' saft, saft on her brow;

young men and maidens learned their

respect to it.

Psalms, and then went home full of the • Come here, come here, my ruddie mate, meek and lowly composure of religion.” The gate o' luve to try.'

The lav'roc calls his freckled mate, There's kames o' hinney 'tween my luve's

Frae near the sun's ee-bree, lips,

• Come make on the knowe our nest of An' gowd amang her hair,

luye,' Her breasts are lapt in a holie veil,

A theme which pleaseth me. Nae mortal een keek there. What lips dare kiss, or what hand dare touch, The hares hae brought forth twins, my love, Or what arm o'luve dare span

Sae has the cushat doo; The hinney lips, the creamy loof,

The raven croaks a safter way, Or the waist o' Ladie Ann.

His sootie love to woo :

And nought but luve, luve breathes around, She kisses the lips o' her bonnie red rose

Frae hedge, frae field, an' tree,
Wat wi' the blobs o' dew;
But nae gentle lip, nor simple lip,

Soft whispering luve to Jeanie's heart,

A theme which pleaseth me.
Maun touch her Ladie mou.
But a broider'd belt wi' a buckle o' gowd, O Lassie, is thy heart mair hard
Her jimpy waist maun span,

Than mavis frae the bough ;
O she's an armfu' fit for heaven,

Say maun the hale.creation wed, My bonnie Ladie Ann.

And Jean remain to woo ?

Say has the holie lowe o' luve Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers,

Ne'er lighten'd in your ee? Tied up wi' silver thread,

0, if thou canst na feel for pain, An' comely sits she in the midst,

Thou art nae theme for me ? Men's longing een to feed. She waves the ringlets frae her cheek, Burns, though the best song-writer in Wi' her milky, milky han',

the world, has not, in our opinion, An' her cheeks seem touch'd wi' the finger produced six songs equal to Allan o' God,

Cunningham's “ Lass of Preston Mill.” My bonnie Ladie Ann !

Why does it not find its way into mu-
The morning cloud is tassel'd wi' gowd, sical collections ?
Like my luve's broider'd cap.

The lark had left the evening cloud,
An' on the mantle which my luve wears The dew fell saft, the wind was lowne,
Are monie a gowden drap.

Its gentle breath amang the flowers

Scarce stirred the thistle's tap of down; Her bonnie eebree's a holie arch

The dappled swallow left the pool, Cast by no earthlie han',

The stars were blinking o'er the hill; An' the breath o' God's atween the lips

As I met amang the hawthorns green,

The lovely lass o' Preston Mill. O’ my bonnie Ladie Ann !

Her naked feet amang the grass, I am her father's gardener lad,

Seemed like twa dew-gemmed lilies fair; An' poor, poor is my fa';

Her brows shone comely 'mang her locks,

Black curiing owre her shouthers bare: My auld mither gets my wee, wee fee, Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth ; Wi' fatherless bairnies twa :

Her lips were like a honey well, My Ladie comes, my Ladie gaes

And heaven seemed looking through her een,

The lovely lass o' Preston Mill.
Wi’ a fou and kindly han',
O the blessing o' God maun mix wi' my

Quo' I, 'fair lass, will ye gang wi' me,

Where black cocks craw, and plovers cry? luve,

Sax hills are wooly wi' my sheep,
An' fa' on' Ladie Ann !

Sax vales are lowing wi' my kye:
I hae looked lang for a weel-faur'd lass,

By Nithsdale's howmes an' monie a hill ;'-There is, we think, much true love in

She hung her head like a dew-bent rose, the following stanzas,-warmth, ten- The lovely lass o' Preston Mill. derness, and delicacy.

Quo'l, sweet maiden, look nae down,

But gie's a kiss, and gae wi' me:' Cauld winter is awa, my luve,

A lovelier face, O! never looked up, And spring is in her prime,

And the tears were drapping frae her ee:

• I hae a lad, wha's far awa, The breath o God stirs a' to life,

That weel could win a woman's will; The grasshoppers to chime:

My heart's already fu'o' love,'

Quo' the lovely lass o' Preston Mill. The birds canna contain themsels

wha is he wha could leave sic a lass, Upon the sprouting tree,

To seek for love in a far countrie?' But loudlie, loudlie sing o' luve,

Her tears drapped down like simmer dew, A theme which please themsels

I fain wad hae kissed them frae her ee.

I took but ane o' her comelie cheek ; The blackbird is a pawkie loun,

• For pity's sake, kind Sir, be still ! An' kens the gate o' luve;

My heart is fu'o'ither love,

Quo' the lovely lass o' Preston Mill. Fu' weel the sleeket mavis kens

She streeked to heaven her twa white hands, The melting lilt maun muve.

And lifted up her watry ee; The gowdspink woos in gentle note,

* Sae lang's my heart kens ought o' God, And ever singeth he,

Or light is gladsome to my ee;

While woods grow green, and burns rin clear, • Come here, come here, my spousal dame,'

Till my last drap o' blood be still, A theme which pleaseth me.

My heart sall haud nae ither love,'

Quo' the lovely lass o' Preston Mill. What says the sangster Rose-linnet ?

• There's comelie maids on Dee's wild banks, His breast is beating high,

And Nith's romantic vale is fu';

By lanely 'Clouden's hermit stream,

How rosie are thy parting lips, Dwalls monie a gentle dame, I trow!

How lilie-white thy skin. 0, they are lights of a bonnie kind,

An' weel I wat thae kissing een As ever shone on vale or hill;

Wad tempt a saint to sin.' But there's a light puts them a' out,

* Tak aff thae bars an' bobs o' gowd, The lovely lass o' Preston Mill.

Wi' thy gared doublet fine;

An' thraw me aff thy green mantle, We finish our quotations from this Leafed wi' the siller twine. somewhat mysterious volume with the An' a' in courtesie fair knight,

A maiden's mind to win, longest poem in it; and as there is

The gowd lacings o' thy green weeds, no doubt whatever, that it is by Allan Wad harm her lilie skin.' Cunningham, our readers will, from Syne coost he aff his green mantle,

Hemm'd wi' the red gowd roun'; its perusal, judge for themselves of his

His costly doublet coost he aft, powers as a poet.

Wi' red gowd flow'red down.
There's a maid has sat o' the green merse side • Now ye maun kame my yellow hair,
Thae ten lang years and mair;

Down wi' my pearlie kame;
An'every first night o' the new moon

Then rowe me in thy green mantle, She kames her yellow hair.

An' take me maiden hame.' An' ay while she sheds the yellow burning gowd, But come first tauk me 'neath the chin, Fu' sweet she sings and hie,

An' syne come kiss my cheek; Till the fairest bird that wooes the green wood, An' spread my hanks o'watry hair, Is charmed wi' her melodte.

l'the new-moon beam to dreep.' But whae'er listens to that sweet sang,

Sae first he kiss'd her dimpled chin, Or gangs the fair dame te;

Syne kissed her rosie cheek ; Ne'er hears the sang o' the lark again,

An' lang he woo'd her willin' lips, Nor waukens an earthlie ee.

Like hether-hinnie sweet! It fell in about the sweet simmer month, l' the first come o' the moon,

0! if ye'll come to the bonnie Cowehill,

'Mang primrose banks to woo, That she sat o' the tap of a sea-weed rock,

I'll wash thée ilk day i'the new milked milk, A-kaming her silk-locks down.

An' bind wi' gowd yere brow. Her kame was o' the whitely pearl,

An' a' for a drink o' the clear water Her hand like new-won milk;

Ye'se hae the rosie wine, Her breasts were o' the snawy curd,

An' a' for the water white lilie, In a net o' sea-green silk.

Ye'se hae these arms o' mine.' She kamed her locks owre her white shoulders,

But what 'll she say, yere bonnie young bride A fleece baith bonny and lang;

Busked wi' the siller fine;
An' ilka ringlet she shed frae her brows,
She raised a lightsome sang.

Whan the rich kisses ye kept for her lips,

Are left wi' vows on mine?' l' the very first liit o' that sweet sang,

He took his lips frae her red-rose mou', The birds forhood their young;

His arm frae her waist sae sma'; And they flew i' the gate o' the gray howlet, • Sweet maiden, I'm in brydal speed. To listen the sweet maiden.

It's time I were awa.' I' the second lilt o' that sweet sang,

• O gie me a token o’luve sweet May, O sweetness it was sae fu';

A leal luve token true;' The tod lap up owre our fauld-dyke,

She crapped a lock o' yellow gowden hair, And dighted his red-wat mou.

An' knotted it roun' his brow. l' the very third Jilt o' that sweet sang,

O tie nae it sae strait, sweet May, Red lowed the new woke moon;

But wi' love's rose-knot kynde; The stars drapped blude on the yellow gowan tap,

My head is fu'o' burning pain, Sax miles round that maiden.

O saft ye maun it bynde.' • I haedwalt on the Nith,' quo' the young Cowehill,

His skin turned a' o' the red-rose hue, . These twenty years an' three,

Wi' draps o' bludie sweat; But the sweetest sang e'er brake frae a lip,

An' he laid his head 'mang the water lilies, Comes through the greenwood to me.

• Sweet maiden, I maun sleep. O is it a voice frae twa earthlie lips,

She tyed ae link o' her wat yellow hair, Whisk makes sic melodie ?

Aboon his burning bree; It wad wyle the lark frae the morning lift,

Among his curling haffet locks And weel may it wyle me!

She knotted knurles three. • I dreamed a dreary thing, master,

She weaved owre his brow the white lilie, Whilk I am rad ye rede;

Wi' witch-knots mae than nine; I dreamed ye kissed a pair o'sweet lips,

* Gif ye were seven times bride-groom owre, That drapped o' red heart's-blude.

This night ye shall be mine.' • Come haud my steed, ye little foot-page,

O twice he turned his sinking head, Shod wi' the red gowd roun';

An' twice he lifted his ee; Till I kiss the lips whilk sing sae sweet,

O twice he sought to lift the links An' lightlie lap he down.

Were knotted owre his bree. * Kiss nae the singer's lips, master,

* Arise, sweet knight, yere young bride waits, Kiss nae the singer's chin;

An' doubts her ale will sowre; Touch nae her hand,' quo' the little foot-page, An' wistly looks at the lily white sheets, • If skaithless hame ye'd win.

Down spread in ladie-bowre.' O wha will sit on yere toom saddle,

An' she has prenned the broidered silk, O wha will bruik yere gluve;

About her white hause bane; An' wha will fauld yere erled bride,

Her princely petticoat is on, l'the kindlic clasps o' luve?'

Wi' gowd can stan’ its lane. He took aff his hat, a' gowd i' the rim,

He faintlie, slowlie, turn'd his cheek, Knot wi'a siller ban';

And faintly lift his ee, He seemed a' in lowe wi' his gowd raiment,

And he strave to lowse the witching bands As thro' the greenwood he ran,

Aboon his burning bree. "The simmer-dew fa's saft, fair maid,

Then took she up his green mantle Aneath the siller moon :

Of lowing gowd the hem; But eerie is thy seat i’ the rock,

Then took she up his silken cap, Washed wi the white sea faem.

Rich wi' a siller stem; Come wash me wi' thy lilie white hand,

An' she threw them wi' her lilie hand
Below and 'boon the knee:

Amang the white sea faem.
An' I'll kame thae links o' yellow burning gowd, She took the bride ring frac his finger
Aboon thy bonnie blue ee.

An' threw it in the sea :

• That hand shall mense nae ither ring

She sat high on the tap towre stane, But wi' the will o' me.'

Nae waiting May was there; She faulded him i' her lilie arms,

She lowsed the gowd busk frae her broast, An' left her pearlie kame;

The kame frae 'mang her hair ;

She wiped the tear-blobs frae her ee,
His fleecy locks trailed owre the sand
As she took the white sea-faem.

And looked lang and sair !
First raise the star out owre the hill,

First sang to her the blythe wee bird, And niest the lovelier moon:

Frae aff the hawthorn green; While the beauteous bride o' Gallowa

• Loose out

the love curls frae yere hair, Looked for her blythe bride-groom.

Ye plaited sae weel yestreen.' Lythlie she sang while the new-moon raise,

An' the spreckled woodlark frae 'mang the clouds Blythe as a young bride May,

O' heaven came singing down; When the new-moon lights her lamp o' luve,

. Tauk out the bride-knots frae yere hair An' blinks the bryde away.

An' let thae lang locks down.' • Nithsdale, thou art a gay garden,

Come, byde wi' me, ye pair o'sweet birds, Wi' monie a winsome flower;

Come down an' byde wi' me; But the princeliest rose o' that garden

Ye sall peckle o' the bread an' drink o' the wine, Maun blossom in my bower.

An' gowd yere cage sall be.' An' I will kepp the drapping dew

She laid the bride-cake 'neath her head, Frae my red rose's tap,

An' syne below her feet; An' the balmy blobs oilka leaf,

An' laid her down 'tween the lilie white sheets I'll kepp them drap by drap.

An' soundlie did she sleep! An' I will wash thy white bosom

It was i' the mid-hour of the night, A' wi' this heavenly sap.'

Her şiller-bell did ring ;

An' soun't as if nae earthlie hand
An' ay she sewed her silken spood,
An' sung a brydal sang;

Had pou'd the silken string.
But aft the tears drapt frae her ee,

There was a cheek touch'd that ladye's, Afore the gray morn cam.

Cauld as the marble stane;

An' a hand cauld as the drifting snaw
The sun lowed ruddie 'mang the dew,

Was laid on her breast-bane.
Sae thick on bank and tree;
The plow-boy whistled at his darg,

* cauld is thy hand, my dear Willie, The milk-may answered hie;

O cauld, cauld is thy cheek;, But the lovely bride o' Gallowa'

An' wring thae locks o yellow hair, Sat wi' a wat-shod ee.

Frae which the cauld draps dreep. Ilk breath o' wind 'mang the forest leaves

• O seek anither bridegroom, Marie, She heard the bridegroom's tongue,

On thae bosom-faulds to sleep; And she heard the brydal-coming lilt

My bride is the yellow water lisie, In every bird which

sung We have seen what a great genius has lately been able to make of the Scottish character in those wonderful Prose Tales which have revealed to us secrets supposed to have been for ever buried in forgetfulness. Ten thousand themes are yet left untouched to native poets-for, after all, Burns has drawn but few finished pictures, and was, for the most part, satisfied with general sketches and rapid outlines. It is not easy to imagine the existence of a more original poet than Burns, who shall also be moved by an equal sympathy with lowly life ;—but it is very easy to imagine the existence of a poet who shall possess a far deeper insight into the grandeur and pathos of that lowly life, who shall contemplate it with a more habitual reverence, and exhibit it in a nobler, yet perfectly natural, mould of poetry. With all our admiration of the genius both of the Ettrick Shepherd and of Allan Cunningham, we are not prepared to say that either of them is such a poet-but we have not the slightest doubt, that if either of them were to set himself seriously to the study of the character of the peasantry of Scotland, as a subject of poetry, he might produce something of deep and universal interest, and leave behind him an imperishable name.

An excellent new ballad to the tune of Grammachro.

Written and Sung by Dr SCOTT.
'Twas on a Wednesday evening, John Craig came darkling hame,
The bairns they a' were sleeping, but wakefu' was the dame,
Yet rose she not when John came in—a thought displeased was she,
That John so late, on market days, in coming home should be.
And 'tis, “ Oh, John Craig, I wonder-what a decent man like you
Can find so late, in Glasgow town, on Wednesday for to do ?”
"Gude words, gude wife," quoth Johnny, “ I'm sure you cannot say
That black the white is o' my ee, since e'er our wedding-day-
What past before's as weel forgot, for your sake as for mine
What signify late comings-home-that were sae lang sin'syne ?
Come gie's a cupfu' of your best, and I'se tell you where I've been
For I've been at the Meeting, and the Radicals I've seen.'
Vol. VI.


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