period it has been augmented by other hands. The idea of the song is very original, and some parts of the execution felicitous. A peasant of Nithsdale once expressed to me his horror at braving a winter morning, in very poetical language. "Snow, the inspired man sings, is beautiful in its season. It was nought for him, sitting with his lasses and his wine, to say sae: had he been a dry stane diker, he would have said nae sic thing. As for me, I never see snaw at my window but I lang to fa' asleep again; and I never wish to step o'er the door stane till I am sure I can set my foot on the bloom of three gowans."

MAGGIE LAUDER.

Wha wadnae be in love

Wi' bonnie Maggie Lauder!

A piper met her gaun to Fife,

And spier'd what was't they ca'd her:
Right scornfully thus answered she,
Begone, you hallan-shaker;

Jog on your gate, you blether-skate,
My name is Maggie Lauder.

Maggie, quoth he, now by my bags,

I'm fidging fain to see you

Sit down by me, my bonnie bird,

In troth I winna steer you; For I'm a piper to my trade,

Men call me Rab the Ranter:

The lasses loup as they were daft,
When I blaw up my chanter.

Piper, quo' Meg, have you your bags,
And is your drone in order?
If you be Rab, I've heard of you,
Live you upon the border?
The lasses a', baith far and near,

Have heard of Rab the Ranter-
I'll shake my foot wi' right good will,
If you'll blaw up your chanter.

Then to his bags he flew wi' speed,
About the drone he twisted;

Meg up and walloped o'er the green,
For brawlie could she frisk it:

Weel done, quoth he; play up, quoth she;
Weel bobbed, quoth Rab the Ranter;
'Tis worth my while to play, indeed,

When I get sic a dancer.

Weel hae you played your part, quoth' Meg,
Your cheeks are like the crimson-

There's nane in Scotland plays sae weel
Since we lost Habbie Simpson.

I've lived in Fife, baith maid and wife,
These ten years and a quarter ;
Gin ye should come to Anster Fair,

Spier ye for Maggie Lauder.

Much idle controversy has arisen respecting the meaning of this admirable song: certain sensitive critics imagine the story to be an impure allegory, like " The Fleming Barge," while others accept the strict and literal and honest meaning of the words. It was written by Francis Semple about the year 1650, if we may trust family tradition. Tradition has lately accepted the aid of some very suspicious anecdotes, accompanied by oral verses, confirmatory of the claim of Semple to this song; and it would be well if the family would set such matters at rest. Under the name of " Mogey Lauther" this song was a favourite in England at the Restoration.

THE AULD MAN'S MARE'S DEAD.

The auld man's mare's dead,

She gae a tug and drappit dead,
The mair haste the waur speed,

A mile aboon Dundee.
She was cat-luggit, painch-lippet,
Steel-waimet, staincher fittet,
Chaunler-chaftet, crook-necket,

And yet the brute did die.

The auld man's mare's dead,

And peats and sticks and corn to lead,
Just in the middle o' his need,

What ailed the brute to die.

Her lunyie bones were knaggs and neuks,
She had the cleeks, the cauld, the crooks,
The moor-ill and the wanton yeuks,

And the howks aboon her e'e.

The auld man's mare's dead,

That bore his banes and wan his bread;
Frae firth to firth was ne'er a steed

Used half so tenderlie.

The auld man he was rough and dour,
The auld mare she was cross and sour-

They loved like birds in summer bower,
And yet the brute could die.

On the authority of some verses by Allan Ramsay, this curious song might be ascribed to Patie Birnie, "the famous fiddler of Kinghorn." But the testimony of verse is very suspicious. There are many variations of the song; and all the diseases which the art of farriery knows have been visited on the auld man's mare by our provincial rhymers. What bard would think now of singing in honour of such a miserable animal, and wonder at the end of every verse that she should have died, when every line shows it was much more wonderful that she lived so long?

THE RINAWAY BRIDE.

A laddie and a lassie fair

Lived in the south countree;
They hae coost their claes thegither,
And wedded wad they be:
On Tuesday to the bridal feast
Came fiddlers flocking free-
But hey play up the rinaway bride,
For she has ta'en the gee.

She had nae run a mile or mair
Till she 'gan to consider
The angering of her father dear,
The vexing of her mither,

The slighting of the silly bridegroom,
The warst of a' the three-

Then hey play up the rinaway bride,
For she has ta'en the gee.

Her father and her mither baith
Ran after her wi' speed;

And ay they ran and cryed, hou, Ann!
Till they came to the Tweed:
Saw ye a lass, a lovesome lass,
That weel a queen might be?

O that's the bride, the rinaway bride,
The bride that's ta'en the gee.