Neist the gudewife her hirelin damsels bids Glowr thro' the byre, and see the hawkies bound;

Tak' tent, 'case Crummy tak' her wonted tids, And ca' the laiglen's treasure on the ground, Whilk spills a kebbuck nice, or yellow pound.

Then a' the house for sleep begin to grien,

Their joints to slack frae industry a while; The leaden god fa's heavy on their een,

And hafflins steeks them frae their daily toil; The cruizie, too, can only blink and blear;

The restit ingle's done the maist it dow; Tacksman and cotter eke to bed maun steer, Upo' the cod to clear their drumlie pow, Till wauken'd by the dawnin's ruddy glow.

Peace to the husbandman and a' his tribe,

Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year! Lang may his sock and cou'ter turn the glybe,

And bauks o' corn bend down wi' laded ear! May Scotia's simmers aye look gay and green; Her yellow har'sts frae scowry blasts decreed! May a' her tenants sit fu' snug and bien,

Frae the hard grip o' ails and poortith freed; And a lang lasting train o' peacefu' hours succeed!

BRAID CLAITH.

Ye wha are fain to hae your name Wrote i' the bonny book o' fame, Let merit nae pretension claim

To laurell'd wreath,

But hap ye weel, baith back and wame, In gude braid claith.

He that some ells o' this may fa',
And slae-black hat on pow like snaw,
Bids bauld to bear the gree awa',
Wi' a' this graith,
Whan bienly clad wi' shell fu' braw
O' gude braid claith.

Waesuck for him wha has nae feck o't! For he's a gowk they're sure to geck at, A chiel that ne'er will be respeckit

While he draws breath, Till his four quarters are bedeckit Wi' gude braid claith.

On Sabbath-days the barber spark, Whan he has done wi' scrapin' wark, Wi' siller broachie in his sark,

Gangs trigly, faith!

Or to the Meadows, or the Park,
In gude braid claith.

Weel might ye trow, to see them there,
That they to shave your haffits bare,
Or curl and sleek a pickle hair,

Wad be right laith,

Whan pacing wi' a gawsy air

In gude braid claith.

If ony mettl'd stirrah grene
For favour frae a lady's een,
He mauna care for being seen
Before he sheath

His body in a scabbard clean

O' gude braid claith.

For, gin he come wi' coat thread-bare,
A feg for him she winna care,
But crook her bonny mou' fu' sair,
And scald him baith.
Wooers should aye their travel spare
Without braid claith.

Braid claith lends fouk an unco heeze,
Maks mony kail-worms butterflies,
Gies mony a doctor his degrees
For little skaith:
In short, you may be what you please
Wi' gude braid claith.

For thof ye had as wise a snout on
As Shakspere or Sir Isaac Newton,
Your judgment fouk wad hae a doubt on,
I'll tak my aith,

Till they cou'd see ye wi' a suit on
O' gude braid claith.

TO THE TRON-KIRK BELL.

Wanwordy, crazy, dinsome thing,
As e'er was framed to jow or ring!
What gar'd them sic in steeple hing,
They ken themsel;

But weel wat I, they couldna bring
Waur sounds frae hell.

Fleece-merchants may look bauld, I trow.
Sin' a' Auld Reekie's childer now
Maun stap their lugs wi' teats o' woo,
Thy sound to bang,

And keep it frae gaun through and through
Wi' jarrin' twang.

Your noisy tongue, there's nae abidin't; Like scauldin' wife's there is nae guidin't; Whan I'm 'bout ony business eident,

It's sair to thole;

To deave me, then, ye tak a pride in't Wi' senseless knoll.

Oh were I provost o' the town,
I swear by a' the powers aboon,
I'd bring ye wi' a reesle down;

Nor should you think

Sae sair I'd crack and clour your crownAgain to clink.

For, whan I've toomed the meikle cap,
And fain would fa' owre in a nap,
Troth, I could doze as sound's a tap,
Were't na for thee,

That gies the tither weary chap
To wauken me.

I dreamt ae night I saw Auld Nick: Quo' he: "This bell o' mine's a trick,

A wily piece o' politic,

A cunnin' snare,

To trap fouk in a cloven stick,
Ere they're aware.

"As lang's my dautit bell hings there,
A' body at the kirk will skair;
Quo' they, gif he that preaches there
Like it can wound,

We dinna care a single hair
For joyfu' sound."

If magistrates wi' me would 'gree, For aye tongue-tackit should you be; Nor fleg wi' anti-melody

Sic honest fouk,

Whase lugs were never made to dree Thy dolefu' shock.

But far frae thee the bailies dwell, Or they would scunner at thy knell; Gie the foul thief his riven bell,

And then, I trow,

The byword hauds, "The deil himsel Has got his due."

SCOTTISH SCENERY AND MUSIC.

(FROM HAME CONTENT, A SATIRE.)

The Arno and the Tiber lang
Hae run fell clear in Roman sang;
But, save the reverence o' schools,
They're baith but lifeless, dowie pools.
Dought they compare wi' bonny Tweed,
As clear as ony lammer bead?

Or are their shores mair sweet and gay
Than Fortha's haughs or banks o' Tay?
Though there the herds can jink the showers
'Mang thriving vines and myrtle bowers,

And blaw the reed to kittle strains,

While echo's tongue commends their pains;
Like ours, they canna warm the heart
Wi' simple saft bewitching art.
On Leader haughs and Yarrow braes
Arcadian herds wad tyne their lays,
To hear the mair melodious sounds
That live on our poetic grounds.

Come, Fancy! come, and let us tread
The simmer's flowery velvet bed,
And a' your springs delightful lowse
On Tweeda's banks or Cowdenknowes.
That, ta'en wi' thy enchanting sang,
Our Scottish lads may round ye thrang,
Sae pleased they'll never fash again
To court you on Italian plain;
Soon will they guess ye only wear
The simple garb o' nature here;
Mair comely far, and fair to sight,
Whan in her easy cleedin' dight,
Than in disguise ye was before
On Tiber's or on Arno's shore.

O Bangour! now the hills and dales
Nae mair gie back thy tender tales!
The birks on Yarrow now deplore
Thy mournfu' muse has left the shore.
Near what bright burn or crystal spring
Did you your winsome whistle hing?
The Muse shall there, wi' watery e'e,
Gie the dunk swaird a tear for thee;
And Yarrow's genius, dowie dame!
Shall there forget her bluid-stained stream,
On thy sad grave to seek repose,

Who mourned her fate, condoled her woes.

CAULER WATER.

Whan father Aidie first pat spade in
The bonny yard o' ancient Eden,
His amry had nae liquor laid in
To fire his mou';

Nor did he thole his wife's upbraidin'
For being fu'.

A cauler burn o' siller sheen

Ran cannily out-owre the green;

And whan our gutcher's drouth had been
To bide right sair,

He loutit down, and drank bedeen
A dainty skair.

His bairns had a', before the flood, A langer tack o' flesh and blood,

1 William Hamilton of Bangour.

And on mair pithy shanks they stood
Than Noal's line,

Wha still hae been a feckless brood
Wi' drinkin' wine.

The fuddlin' bardies, now-a-days,
Rin maukin-mad in Bacchus' praise;
And limp and stoiter through their lays
Anacreontic,

While each his sea of wine displays
As big's the Pontic.

My Muse will no gang far frae hame,
Or scour a' airths to hound for fame;
In troth, the jillet ye might blame
For thinkin' on't,

When eithly she can find the theme
O' aquafont.

This is the name that doctors use,
Their patients' noddles to confuse;
Wi' simples clad in terms abstruse
They labour still

In kittle words to gar you roose
Their want o' skill.

But we'll hae nae sic clitter-clatter;
And, briefly to expound the matter,
It shall be ca'd guid cauler water;
Than whilk, I trow,

Few drugs in doctors' shops are better
For me or you.

Though joints be stiff as ony rung,
Your pith wi' pain be sairly dung,
Be you in cauler water flung

Out-owre the lugs,

Twill mak you souple, swack, and young, Withouten drugs.

As simmer rains bring simmer flowers,
And leaves to cleed the birken bowers,
Sae beauty gets by cauler showers
Sae rich a bloom,

As for estate, or heavy dowers,
Aft stands in room.

What maks auld Reekie's dames sae fair?

It canna be the halesome air;

But cauler burn, beyond compare,
The best o' ony,

That gars them a' sic graces skair,
And blink sae bonny?

On May-day, in a fairy ring,

We've seen them round St. Anthon's spring,
Frae grass the cauler dew-draps wring
To weet their een,

And water, clear as crystal spring,
To synd them clean.

O may they still pursue the way
To look sae feat, sae clean, sae gay!
Then shall their beauties glance like May;
And, like her, be

The goddess of the vocal spray,
The Muse and me.

SUNDAY IN EDINBURGH.

(FROM AULD REEKIE.1)

On Sunday, here, an altered scene O' men and manners meets our een. Ane wad maist trow, some people chose To change their faces wi' their clothes, And fain wad gar ilk neebour think They thirst for guidness as for drink; But there's an unco dearth o' grace, That has nae mansion but the face, And never can obtain a part In benmost corner o' the heart. Why should religion mak us sad, If good frae virtue's to be had? Na: rather gleefu' turn your face, Forsake hypocrisy, grimace; And never hae it understood You fleg mankind frae being good. In afternoon, a' brawly buskit, The joes and lasses lo'e to frisk it.

1 It was Fergusson's intention to extend this poem to a much greater length; but what was originally offered as a first canto never received any important additions. "Auld Reekie was inscribed to Sir William Forbes, but that gentleman seems to have despised "the poor ovations of a minstrel's praise."-ED.

Some tak a great delight to place
The modest bon-grace owre the face;
Though you may see, if so inclined,
The turning o' the leg behind,
Now, Comely-Garden and the Park
Refresh them, after forenoon's wark:
Newhaven, Leith, or Canonmills,
Supply them in their Sunday's gills;
Where writers aften spend their pence,
To stock their heads wi' drink and sense.
While dandering cits delight to stray
To Castle hill or public way,
Where they nae other purpose mean,
Than that fool cause o' being seen,
Let me to Arthur's Seat pursue,
Whar bonny pastures meet the view,
And mony a wild-lorn scene accrues,
Befitting Willie Shakspere's muse.
If Fancy there would join the thrang,
The desert rocks and hills amang,
To echoes we should lilt and play,
And gie to mirth the live-lang day.

Or should some cankered biting shower,
The day and a' her sweets deflower,
To Holyroodhouse let me stray,
And gie to musing a' the day;
Lamenting what auld Scotland knew,
Bein days for ever frae her view.
O Hamilton, for shame! the Muse
Would pay to thee her couthy vows,
Gin ye wad tent the humble strain,
And gie's our dignity again!
For, oh, wae's me! the thistle springs
In domicile o' ancient kings,
Without a patriot to regret
Our palace and our ancient state.

HALLOW-FAIR.

There's fouth o' braw Jockies and Jennies
Comes weel buskit into the fair,
With ribbons on their cockernonies,

And fouth o' fine flour on their hair.
Maggie she was sae weel buskit,

That Willie was tied to his bride; The pownie was ne'er better whisket Wi' cudgel that hang frae his side.

But Maggie was wondrous jealous,
To see Willie buskit sae braw;
And Sandy he sat in the ale-house,
And hard at the liquor did ca'.

There was Geordie, that weel loed his lassie,
He took the pint-stoup in his arms,

And hugged it, and said, Trouth they're saucie That loes na a guid-father's bairn.

There was Wattie, the muirland laddie, That rides on the bonnie gray cout, With sword by his side like a cadie

To drive in the sheep and the nowt. His doublet sae weel it did fit him,

It scarcely cam' down to mid-thie, With hair pouthered, hat, and a feather, And housing at curpan and tea.

But Bruckie played boo to Bassic,

And aff scoured the cout like the wind: Puir Wattie he fell on the caussey,

And birzed a' the banes in his skin. His pistols fell out o' the hulsters, And were a' bedaubed wi' dirt, The folk they cam' round him in clusters; Some leuch, and cried, Lad, was ye hurt?

But cout wad let naebody steer him,
He aye was sae wanton and skeigh;
The packmen's stands he overturned them,
And garred a' the Jocks stand abeigh;
Wi' sneerin' behind and before him,

For sic is the mettle o' brutes,
Puir Wattie, and wae's me for him,
Was fain to gang hame in his boots.

Now it was late in the e'ening,

And boughting-time was drawing near; The lasses had stanched their greening Wi' fouth o' braw apples and beer. There was Lillie, and Tibbie, and Sibbie, And Ceicy on the spindle could spin, Stood glowrin' at signs and glass winnocks, But deil a ane bade them come in.

Gude guide us! saw ye e'er the like o't? See, yonder's a bonnie black swan;

It glow'rs as it wad fain be at us;

What's yon that it hauds in its hand? Awa', daft gowk, cries Wattie,

They're a' but a ruckle o' sticks;

See, there is Bill-Jock, and auld Hawkie, And yonder's Mess John and auld Nick.

Quoth Maggie, Come buy us our fairin';
And Wattie richt sleely could tell,

I think thou'rt the flower o' the clachan,-
In trowth, now, I'se gi'e thee mysell.
But wha wad ha'e e'er thocht it o' him,
That e'er he had rippled the lint?

Sae proud was he o' his Maggie,

Though she was baith scaulie and squint.

LADY ANNE LINDSAY, "the daughter of a hundred earls," whose literary fame, like that of Mrs. Alison Cockburn and Jane Elliot, depends on one poem, was born at Balcarres, in Fife, November 27, 1750. She was the eldest daughter of James, fifth earl of Balcarres, and at an early age displayed both a love of learn ing and a taste for literary composition. At the age of twenty-one she wrote "Auld Robin Gray," perhaps the most perfect, tender, and affecting of modern Scottish ballads. Ritson says, "The authoress has, in this beautiful production, to all that tenderness and simplicity for which the Scottish song has been so much celebrated, united a delicacy of expression which it never before attained;" and Sir Walter Scott writes: "Auld Robin Gray' is that real pastoral which is worth all the dialogues which Corydon and Phillis have had together, from the days of Theocritus downwards." In 1793 Lady Lindsay married Andrew Barnard, Esq., son of the Bishop of Limerick, an accomplished but not wealthy gentleman, whom she accompanied to the Cape of Good Hope, on his appointment as colonial secretary under Lord Macartney. Mr. Barnard died at the Cape in 1807, when his widow | returned to London, where she continued to reside, enjoying the friendship of Burke, Windham, Dundas, and a host of wise and good men and women of that generation, until the day of her decease, which occurred at her residence in Berkeley Square, on May 6, 1825.

Lady Barnard faithfully kept the secret of the authorship of her exquisite ballad for upwards of half a century. At length, when in her seventy-third year, she wrote a letter to Sir Walter Scott, with whom she was well acquainted, requesting him to inform his personal friend, the author of "Waverley," that she was indeed the authoress of “Auld Robin Gray." It was written with special reference to an old Scottish air, "The bridegroom greits when

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the sun gaes doun," the words of which were coarse. Lady Anne was passionately fond of this melody, and longed to give to its plaintive tones some little history of virtuous distress in humble life. Hence the beautiful ballad which has touched for a hundred years thousands of hearts with a tender feeling. Robin Gray was the name of a shepherd at Balcarres, who was familiar to the children of the house. He had once arrested them in their flight to an indulgent neighbour's. Lady Anne revenged this arrest by seizing the old man's name, and preventing it from passing into forgetfulness. While she was in the act of heaping misforfortunes on the heroine Jeanie, her younger sister Elizabeth strayed into the little room, and saw Anne at her escritoire. "I have been writing a ballad, my dear," said Anne; "and I am oppressing my heroine with many misfortunes. I have already sent her Jamie to sea, broken her father's arm, made her mother fall sick, and given her auld Robin Gray for a lover; but I wish to load her with a fifth sorrow in the four lines. Help me to one, I pray." "Steal the cow, sister Anne," said the little Elizabeth. The cow was immediately lifted, and the immortal song completed.

Lady Barnard wrote the second part of "Auld Robin Gray" in order to gratify the desire of her mother, who wished to know how "the unlucky business of Jeanie and Jamie ended;" but like all such continuations, it is greatly inferior to the first part. We give a comical French version of the original song by Florian, printed in the Lives of the Lindsays. The song "Why tarries my Love?" was written by Lady Anne, and to her has been attributed, but without sufficient evidence, the authorship of the favourite lyric "Logie o' Buchan," now believed to be the production of George Halket, schoolmaster of Rathen in Aberdeenshire, and to have been written before Lady Barnard was born.