RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING.

I COMPOSED these verses on Miss Isabella M'Leod of Raza, alluding to her feelings on the death of her sister, and the still more melancholy death of her sister's husband, the late Earl of Loudon.

Tune-M'GRIGOR OF RORO'S LAMENT.

Raving winds around her blowing,
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing,
By a river hoarsely roaring,

Isabella stray'd deploring.

Farewel hours, that late did measure
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure;
Hail! thou gloomy night of sorrow,
Cheerless night that knows no morrow!

O'er the past too fondly wandering,
On the hopeless Future wandering;
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes,
Fell despair my fancy seizes.
Life, thou soul of every blessing,
Load to misery most distressing;
Gladly how would I resign thee,
And to dark oblivion join thee!

THE BRIDAL O'T.

THIS song is the work of a Mr. Alexander Ross, late schoolmaster at Lochlee; and author of a beautiful Scots poem, called, The Fortunate Shepherdess.

Tune-LUCY CAMPBELL.

They say that Jockey'll speed weel o't,
They say that Jockey'll speed weel o't,
For he grows brawer ilka day,

I hope we'll hae a bridal o't:
For yesternight, nae farder gane,
The backhouse at the side wa' o't,
He there wi' Meg was mirden seen,
I hope we'll hae a bridal o't.

An we had but a bridal o't,

An we had but a bridal o't,
We'd leave the rest unto gude luck,

Altho' there should betide ill o't:

* An account of Mr. Ross may be seen in the Appendix to this volume, marked (c.)

For bridal days are merry times,
And young folks like the coming o't,
And scribblers they bang up their rhymes,
And pipers they the bumming o't.

The lasses like a bridal o't,

The lasses like a bridal o't,

Their braws maun be in rank and file,
Altho' that they should guide ill o't:
The boddom o' the kist is then

Turn'd up unto the inmost o't,

The end that held the kecks sae clean,
Is now become the teemest o't.

The bangster at the threshing o't,
The bangster at the threshing o't,

Afore it comes is fidgin fain,

And ilka day's a clashing o't:
He'll sell his jerkin for a groat,
His linder for anither o't,

And e'er he want to clear his shot,
His sark'll pay the tither o't.

The pipers and the fiddlers o't,
The pipers and the fiddlers o't,
Can smell a bridal unco far,

And like to be the middlers o't:

Fan* thick and threefold they convene,
Ilk ane envies the tither o't,

And wishes nane but him alane
May ever see anither o't.

Fan they hae done wi' eating o't,
Fan they hae done wi' eating o't,
For dancing they gae to the green,
And aiblins to the beating o't:
He dances best that dances fast,
And loups at ilka reesing o't,

And claps his hands frae hough to hough,
And furls about the feezings o't.

* Fan, when the vulgar dialect of Angus.

WHAT AILS THE LASSES AT ME.

Tune-AN THE KIRK WAD LET ME BE.

I am a batchelor winsome,

A farmer by rank and degree,

An' few I see gang out mair handsome,
To kirk or to market than me;

I have outsight and insight and credit,
And from any eelist I'm free,

I'm well enough boarded and bedded,
And what ails the lasses at me?

My boughts of good store are no scanty,
My byrs are well stocked wi' ky,

Of meal i' my girnels is plenty,
An' twa' or three easements forby.

An' horse to ride out when they're weary,

An' cock with the best they can see,
An' then be ca'd dawty and deary,
I fairly what ails them at me.

Behind backs, afore fouk I've woo'd them,

An' a' the gates o't that I ken,

An' whan they leugh o' me, I trow'd them,

An' thought I had won, but what then;