LUCY'S FLIIIIX'. WILLIAM LAIDLAW. 'TWAS when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in, And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year, That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in't, And left her auld maister and neebors sae dear: For Lucy had served in the glen a' the simmer; She cam' there afore the flower bloomed on the pea; An orphan was she, and they had been kind till her, Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her e'e. She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin'; Richt sair was his kind heart, the flittin' to see: "Fare ye weel, Lucy!" quo Jamie and ran in ; The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his e'e. As down the burnside she gaed slow wi' the flittin', "Fare ye weel, Lucy!" was ilka bird's sang; She heard the craw sayin't, high on the tree sittin', And robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang. แ Oh, what is't that puts my puir heart in a flutter, And what gars the tears come sae fast to my e'e, If I wasna ettled to be ony better, Then what gars me wish ony better to be? "Wi' the rest o' my claes I ha'e row'd up the ribbon, Though now he said naething but 'Fare ye weel, Lucy!' The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it's droukit ; The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea: But Lucy likes Jamie, she turn'd and she lookit, She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless! And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn! For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless, Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return! ODE TO LEVEY-WATER. SMOLLETT. ON Leven's banks, while free to rove, And tune the rural pipe to love, Pure stream, in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave; And edges flowered with eglantine. Still on thy banks so gaily green, May numerous herds and flocks be seen, And shepherds piping in the dale; THE FA' O' THE YEAR. THOMAS SMIBERT. AFORE the Lammas' tide had dun'd the birken-tree, In a' our water-side nae wife was blest like me; Sair trouble cam' our gate, an' made me, when it cam', A bird without a mate, a ewe without a lamb. Our hay was yet to maw, and our corn was to shear, When they a' dwined awa' in the fa' o' the year. I downa look a-field, for aye I trow I see The form that was a bield to my wee bairns and me; But wind, and weet, and snaw, they never mair can fear, Sin' they a' got the ca' in the fa' o' the year. Aft on the hill at e'ens I see him amang the ferns, Our bonny rigs theirsel' reca' my waes to mind, Our puir dumb beasties tell o' a' that I hae tyned; My hearth is growing cauld, and will be caulder still; And sair, sair in the fauld will be the winter's chill; For peats were yet to ca'-our sheep were yet to smear, When my a' dwined awa' in the fa' o' the year. I ettle whiles to spin, but wee, wee patterin' feet Be kind, O Heav'n abune! to ane sae wae and lane, |