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And when at last thy love shall die,

Wilt thou receive his parting breath?
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,

And cheer with smiles the bed of death?
And wilt thou o'er his much-lov'd clay

Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear?
Nor then regret those scenes so gay,

Where thou wert fairest of the fair?


This very natural and charming song has been welcomed in Scotland as one of its own productions; and indeed in language and feeling it is quite northern. The imitation of the songs of Caledonia is as happy as any the Bishop of Dromore's English productions. As a compensation to our southern friends for admitting this lyric among those of the north, I shall exclude many Anglo-Scottish productions which for some time have mingled with ours. No English poet has caught up the language and the character of our national songs with such happiness and skill as Percy; and I believe no poet and critic has rendered such essential benefit to the literature of the island. The publication of the Reliques of English Poetry recalled the taste of the country to the simple and the natural, and exposed the poverty of the cold and glittering style which came, with other fashions, from abroad.



Will ye gang o'er the lea rig,

My ain kind dearie-o; And cuddle there fu' kindly

Wi' me, my kind dearie-o? At thorny bush, or birken tree,

We'll daff, and never weary-0; - They'll scug ill e'en frae you and me,

My ain kind dearie-o.

Nae herd wi' kent or colly there

Shall ever come to fear ye-o; But laverocks whistling in the air

Shall woo, like me, their dearie-o. While ithers herd their lambs and ewes,

And toil for warld's gear, my jo, Upon the lee my pleasure grows

Wi thee, my kind dearie-o.


At gloamin', if my lane I be,

Oh, but I'm wondrous eerie-o; And mony a heavy sigh I gie,

When absent frae dearie-o: But seated 'neath the milk-white thorn,

In ev'ning fair and clearie-o, Enraptur'd, a' my cares I scorn, Whan wi'


kind dearie-o.

Whare through the birks the burnie rows,

Aft hae I sat fu' cheerie-o,
Among the bonnie greensward howes,
Wi thee,


kind dearie-o.
I've courted till I've heard the craw

Of honest Chanticleerie-o,
Yet never miss'd my sleep ava,
Whan wi' my

kind dearie-o.

For though the night were ne'er sae dark,

And I were ne'er sae weary-o,
I'd meet thee on the lea rig,

My ain kind dearie-o.
While in this weary warld of wae,

This wilderness sae drearie-o,
What makes me blithe, and keeps me sae?

'Tis thee, my kind dearie-o.

The first two verses of this song were written by the unfortunate Robert Ferguson, a poet of fine genius and irregular life, whose works bear promise of expanding powers, and a more exalted and consistent song. The first time I ever saw his poems, their perusal was accompanied by an anecdote of the author too characteristic not to be true. “He was a strange lad,” said my friend, “and as wild as a poet ought to be. One day, in Dumfries, I saw a pale young man in an odd cap and a flannel jacket, staring at the crowds, who were staring at him. Some said he was mad, some said hé was winning a wager, and some said he was a poet. This last conjecture was right ;-it was Robert Ferguson, who, from some idle vaunt, or for some foolish wager, undertook to walk from Edinburgh to Dumfries in that strange dress, and performed his undertaking.” The three additional verses are written by Mr. William Reid, bookseller in Glasgow. They are executed much in the feeling and manner of the original song.


I am a young bachelor winsome,

A farmer by rank and degree,
And few I see gang out more handsome

To kirk or to market than me.
I've outsight and insight, and credit,

And frae onie eelist I'm free;
I'm weel enough boarded and bedded,

What ails the lasses at me:

My bughts of good store are na scanty,

My byres are weel stock'd wi' kye;
Of meal in my girnels there's plenty,

And twa or three easements forby.
A horse to ride out when they're weary,

And cock wi' the best they can see;
And then be ca't dautie and deary,--

I wonder what ails them at me.

I've tried them, baith highland and lowland,

Where I a fair bargain could see ;
The black and the brown were unwilling,

The fair anes were warst oʻthe three.
With jooks and wi' scrapes I've addressed them,

Been with them baith modest and free;
But whatever way I caressed them,

They were cross and were canker'd wi' me.

There's wratacks, and cripples, and cranshanks,

And a' the wandoghts that I ken,
Nae sooner they smile on the lasses,

Than they are ta'en far enough ben.
But when I speak to them that's stately,
I find them

ta'en wi' the

And get the denial fu' flatly ;-

What think ye can ail them at me?

I have a gude offer to make them,

If they would but hearken to me;
And that is, I'm willing to take them,

Gin they wad be honest and free.
Let her wha likes best write a billet,

And send the sweet message to me;
By sun and by moon, I'll fulfil it,

Though crooked or crippled she be !

To the poet's challenge a very long and a very dull answer was written, and signed “ Jeanie Gradden," which follows the


many collections.

I have

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