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I ran thro' every weel kenn'd room,
In hopes to meet friends there;
And hang o'er ilka chair:
Did dim these een o' mine;
As I thought on langsyne.
Of all the “ Langsynes” which have appeared since the famous “ Langsyne” of Burns, this seems by far the most beautiful. I have ventured, however, to cut away the concluding verse, which weakened the impression of the overpowering image presented in the fourth. I am sorry I cannot name the author.
The gallant lads of Gallowa,
The lads frae far Corehead to Hoddom,
Are a' come wooing Tibbie Rodan.
The braksha lairds of Moffatt water,
Are come to count her gear and daut her.
I mind her weel in plaiden gown,
Before she heir'd her uncle's coffer;
And ne'er a lad hae shored them off her.
Graithing sewed with gowd and siller;
And half the country's trysting till her.
I wadna gie twa rosie lips,
With breath like mixed milk and honey,
For Tibbie, wi' a mine o' money.
With scented dew all richly drappin,
For Tibbie, wi' her lady-happin.
Of this scion from the universal favourite, Tibbie Fowler, some of the slips may be worth preserving:
Sour plums are gude wi' sugar
bakedSlaes are sweet wi' kames o' hinnie; The bowltest carlin i' the land,
Gowd can make her straught an' bonnie.
A ruder and earlier copy was printed in Cromek's volume, and many variations might be given, but they would be more curious than excellent.
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;
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,
The Teviot an' the Tweed;
When summer suns are fine,
For the days o' lang syne.
sin' first we met
An' clad in his last claes ;
Grim Death he heuks us a',
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;
For the days o' lang syne.
Tho' Cheviot's top be frosty still,
below the knee,
An' gang awa' wi' me.
We're fidgin' a' fu' fain,
An' we'll fish her owre again.
An' hameward when we toddle back,
An' night begins to fa',
We'll crack aboon them a':-
I'll lay my loof in thine,
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.