Now, piper lad, bang up the spring ;
The country fashion is the thing,
Το
pree

their mou's ere we begin
To dance the reel o' Bogie.

Now ilka lad has got a lass

Save yon auld doited fogie,
And ta'en a fling upon

the

grass,
As they do in Stra'bogie;
But a' the lasses look sae fain
We canna think oursels to hain,
For they maun hae their come-again

To dance the reel o' Bogie.

Now a' the lads hae done their best,

Like true men o' Stra'bogie ;
We'll stop a while and tak a rest,

And tipple out a cogie.
Come now, my lads, and tak your glass,
And try ilk other to surpass
In wishing health to ev'ry lass,

To dance the reel o’ Bogie.

Cauld Kale in Aberdeen has been a standing dish for the bards of that district for many years : but though numerous verses have been poured forth in its honour, none of them are excellent. Fame imputes the present song to the Duke of Gordon; and if fame is right, his grace has been free and condescending in his enjoyments: he dances on the green with much animation, and salutes his rustic partner with a gallantry worthy of the house of Gordon. Of the other songs, ancient and modern, few quotations will serve :

There's cauld kale in Aberdeen,

And castocks in Stra'bogie,
Where ilka lad maun hae his lass,

But I maun hae
For I maun hae my cogie, lass,

I canna want my cogie ;
I wadna gie my three-girred cog

For a' the queans in Bogie.

my cogie.

This Aberdeenshire toper goes on to complain of a neighbour's wife, whose numerous children somewhat scrimped her husband in his

cups,

while she gave him other intelligible admonitions :

She fand him ance at Willie Sharp's,

And what they maist did laugh at,
She brake the bicker, spilt the drink,

And tightly gowffed his haffet.

STREPHON AND LYDIA.

· All lonely on the sultry beach

Expiring Strephon lay,
No hand the cordial draught to reach,

Nor cheer the gloomy way.
Ill-fated youth! no parent nigh

To catch thy fleeting breath,
No bride to fix thy swimming eye,

Or smooth the face of death!

Far distant from the mournful scene

Thy parents sit at ease,
Thy Lydia rifles all the plain,

And all the spring, to please.
Il fated youth ! by fault of friend,

Not force of foe, depress'd,
Thou fall’st, alas ! thyself, thy kind,

Thy country, unredress'd!

The author of this touching song was William Wallace, Esq., of Cairnhall, county of Ayr: and I am sorry he has left only this very brief proof of very fine lyric powers. He has erred with others in the use of unnatural names_Strephon and Lydia give the air of fiction to a very true and mournful story. The hero and heroine were perhaps the loveliest couple of their time. The gentleman was commonly known by the name of Beau Gibson. The lady was the “ Gentle Jean," celebrated in Mr. Hamilton of Bangour's poems. Having frequently met at public places, they had formed a reciprocal attachment, which their friends thought dangerous, as their resources were by no means adequate to their tastes and habits of life. To elude the bad consequences of such a connexion, Strephon was sent abroad with a commission, and perished in Admiral Vernon's expedition to Carthagena, in the year 1740.

THE BOATIE ROWS.

The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows fu' weel:
Meikle luck attend the boats,

The murlain, and the creel.
Weel
may

the boatie row,
And better may it speed;
Weel
may

the boatie row,
That wins the bairns' bread.

I coost my line in Largo bay,

And fishes I catch'd nine;
'Twas three to boil, and three to fry,

And three to bait the line.

The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows indeed ; And happy be the lot of a'

Who wishes her to speed.

O weel may the boatie row

That fills a heavy creel,
And cleads us a' frae head to feet,

And buys our porritch meal.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows indeed ; And happy be the lot of a'

That wish the boatie speed.

When Jamie vow'd he would be mine,

And wan frae me my heart,
O muckle lighter grew my creel !

He swore we'd never part.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows fu' weel;
And muckle lighter is the lade

When love bears up the creel

My kurch I put upon my head,

And dress'd mysel' fu' braw,
I trow my heart was douf an' wae

When Jamie gaed awa':
But weel may the boatie row,

And lucky be her part;