She lifted up her wondering een

To see from whence the voice might be,
And there she saw young Sandie stand,
A shadowy form, wi' hollow e'e!
O Mary dear, lament nae mair,

I'm in death-thraws below the sea;
Thy weeping makes me sad in bliss,
Sae, Mary, weep nae mair for me!

The wind slept when we left the bay,

But soon it waked and raised the main,
And God he bore us down the deep:

Wha strave wi' him but strave in vain?
He stretched his arm, and took me up,
Tho' laith I was to gang but thee;
I look frae heaven aboon the storm,
Sae, Mary, weep nae mair for me!

Tak aff the bride sheets frae thy bed,
Which thou hast faulded down for me:
Unrobe thee of thy earthly stole-

I'll meet wi' thee in heaven hie.
Three times the gray cock flapt his wing
To mark the morning lift his e'e,
And thrice the passing spirit said,

Sweet Mary, weep nae mair for me!

This variation of Lowe's beautiful lyric is copied from Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song, where it was accompanied by remarks on its claims

to notice as a Scottish version and variety of the other. It has been described as an attempt to injure the fame of Lowe, as if variations of songs had now for the first time appeared in the language; and it has been also represented as dull and stupid. To seek to injure a poet's fame by publishing a variation of his song, sprinkled with the native dialect of the land, is a charge that might have been made against both Ramsay and Burns: their works abound with such lyrics. And to write a good song down by means of a duller one, reminds me of the clergyman who came to London on purpose to write down Paradise Lost. It is needless to say more: if I abstain from noticing the printed folly of one of the district authors, it is only because I wish not to revive the memory of a work which the world has so willingly and so hastily forgotten. I feel reluctance at waging war with a candidate for a pulpit-besides I have a reverence for gravity and dulness, and a sympathy for those who seem largely endowed by nature with the power of promoting the slumbers of a respectable congregation.

CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN.

There's cauld kail in Aberdeen,

And castocks in Stra'bogie;

Gin I hae but a bonnie lass,
Ye're welcome to your cogie.

And ye may sit up a' the night,
And drink till it be braid day-light:
Gie me a lass baith clean and tight,
To dance the reel o' Bogie.

In cotillons the French excel,
John Bull loves country dances;
The Spaniards dance fandangos well;
Mynheer an all'mand prances:

In foursome reels the Scots delight,

At threesomes they dance wond'rous light,
But twasomes ding a' out o' sight,
Danc'd to the reel o' Bogie.

Come, lads, and view your partners weel,

Wale each a blithesome rogie:

I'll tak this lassie to mysel',

She looks sae keen and vogie:

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

As they do in Stra'bogie;

grass,

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 my cogie.
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.

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.