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I ran thro' every weel kenn'd room,

In hopes to meet friends there;
I saw where ilk ane us'd to sit,

And hang o'er ilka chair:
Till warm remembrance' gushing tear

Did dim these een o' mine;
I steek'd the door and sobb’d aloud

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.

TIBBIE RODAN.

The gallant lads of Gallowa,

The lads frae far Corehead to Hoddom,
The merry lads of green Nithsdale,

Are a' come wooing Tibbie Rodan.
Tweedshaw's tarry nieves are here;

The braksha lairds of Moffatt water,
The blithesome Bells, the Irvings good,

Are come to count her gear and daut her.

I mind her weel in plaiden gown,

Before she heir'd her uncle's coffer;
The gleds might howk'd out her gray een,

And ne'er a lad hae shored them off her.
Now she's got a bawsant nag,

Graithing sewed with gowd and siller;
Silken sonks to haud her doap,

And half the country's trysting till her.

I wadna gie twa rosie lips,

With breath like mixed milk and honey,
Which i' the gloaming dew I kiss'd,

For Tibbie, wi' a mine o' money.
I wadna gie the haffet locks,

With scented dew all richly drappin,
Which lay yestreen upon my breast,

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.

VOL. III.

N

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;
There's something, dear lassie, about ye bewitching,

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,
We've tried the Wansbeck an' the Wear, .

The Teviot an' the Tweed;
An' we will try them ance again

When summer suns are fine,
An' we'll thraw the flie thegither yet

For the days o' lang syne.

'Tis
mony years

sin' first we met
On Coquet's bonny braes,
An' mony a brither fisher's gane,

An' clad in his last claes ;
An' we maun follow wi' the lave,

Grim Death he heuks us a',
But we'll hae anither fishing bout

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;
An' we'll hae a plash amang the lads,

For the days o' lang syne.

Tho' Cheviot's top be frosty still,
He's
green

below the knee,
Sae don your plaid an' tak your gad,

An' gang awa' wi' me.
Come busk your flies, my auld compeer,

We're fidgin' a' fu' fain,
We've fish'd the Coquet mony a year,

An' we'll fish her owre again.

An' hameward when we toddle back,

An' night begins to fa',
When ilka chiel maun tell his crack,

We'll crack aboon them a':-
When jugs are toom'd an' coggies wet,

I'll lay my loof in thine,
We've shown we're good at water yet,

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.

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