AS I WEND THROUGH THE WILD WOOD.
THE gloamin' is gloomin', the daylight awa',
Adown the lang loanin' the owsen come slaw,
Lowne sings the mavis on yonder auld tree,
And the lark leaves the clud for its nest on the lea;
As I wend through the wild wood, the dark wood, sae eerie,
As I wend through the lang wood to meet thee, my dearie.
The auld crazy mill seems to deepen its din,
While louder the burnie rairs o'er the wee linn,
And the howl of the mastiff, sae lang and sae drear,
'Maist dauntens my heart as it fa's on my ear.
Nae moon climbs the dull lift, sae bare and sae blue,
Whare ae little starnie looks glimmerin' through;
And the saft westlin' breeze as it passes me by,
Lifts the locks frae my brow wi' a pitifu' sigh.
As I wend, etc.
Ilk wee bird has faulded its wing for the night,
And the howlet belyve, frae yon auld turret's height,
Whare it dozes its lane, will be hootin' awa'
To the wanderin' sterns as they rise and they fa'.
Then haste through the wild wood, the dark wood
sae eerie,
Haste, haste through the lang wood to meet me, my dearie.
To our borough my lord in his chariot rolled,
And his flunkies were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the smile on his face, and the glance of his e'e
Seemed as fair to my sight as the flowers on the lea.
Like bees round their hives when the summer is green,
The councillors all round the tavern were seen;
Like bees when the leaves of the forest are strewn,
That party by midnight were all overthrown.
For the steam of the alcohol rose to their brains,
And the window-frames shook with their bacchanal strains,
And in bumpers they drank to his lordship's success,
Till they dropp'd on the carpet like pears on the grass.
And there lay the butcher in holiday pride,
Not a cowl on his head, nor a steel by his side,
And the sugh of the sleeper waxed noisier still,
Though the shoemaker bawled for a finishing gill.
And there lay the tailor dejected and wan,
A shrivelled abortion,—a fraction of man ;-
And the room is all silent, the carpet all wet;
The tumblers demolished, the tables upset.
And the matrons were angry and loud in their wail,
That their doves had imbibed so much whisky and ale;
But a compliment kindly and decently shored,1
And they melted in smiles at the glance of my lord !
Davin Nedder.
THE TOWN PIPER'S LAY.
AIR-" Will ye gang to the ewe-bughts, Marion?"
NAINSEL frae ta hills wad pe flittin',
An' come to a toon on ta coast :
An' as it was proper an' fittin',
She soon got a shentleman's post.
Her cousin ta laird o' Petgrunsel
A letter did send in a crack;
An' syne frae ta provos' an' council
She got a toon-coat on her back!
She disna pe drink in ta mornin',
Except it be trams ane or twa;
An' when ta lord provos' gies warnin'
She aye studes his henchman fu' pra'.
She disna pe drink in ta e'enin',
Unless it pe four or five cann;
An' if she pehaves where she's peen in,
She'll soon pe ta provos' pest man.
She marches ilk week to ta preachin'
An' shoulders her halbert like daft ;
An' aye while ta minister's teachin',
She sleeps in ta magistrate's laft.
But though she's o' shentle connection,
She scorns for to prag or to plaw;
Weel may ye deshest your refection!
Goot nicht, Sirs, an' shoy wi' ye a'!
Davin Vedder.
LAUCHIE FRASER'S PROMOTIONS.
NAINSEL she was porn 'mang ta Hielan' hills,
'Mang ta goats, an' ta sheeps, an' ta whiskee stills,
An' ta brochan, an' brogues, an' ta snuishin' mills,
Oich she was ta ponnie land she was porn in ;
For a' ta lads there will be shentlemans porn,
An' will wear skean-dhu an' ta praw snuishin'-horn,
An' ta fine tartan trews her praw houghs to adorn,
An' mak' her look fu' spruce in ta mornin'.
Noo, ta shentlemans will no like to wroughtin' at a',
But she'll sit py ta grieshach her haffets to claw;
An' pe birsle her shanks, till they're red as ta haw,
An' a' fu' o' measles ilka mornin'.
But her nainsel at last to ta Lalans cam' doon,
An' will got her a place mang ta mhor Glaschow toon;
Whar she's noo prush-ta-poot, an' pe polish-ta-shoon,
An' pe shentleman s flunkie in ta mornin'.
But at last she will turn very full o' ta proud,
An' she'll hold up her heads, an' she'll spoke very loud,
An' she'll look wi' disdains 'pon ta low tirty crowd,
Tat will hing 'pout ta doors ilka mornin'.
Noo, her nainsel is go to have one merry ball,
Whar she'll dance Killum Callum, hoogh ta best o' them all,
For ta ponniest dancer she'll pe in ta hall,
Ay, either 'mang ta evenin' or mornin'.
Ither lads will have lassies, hersel will have no,
It pe far too expense wi' ta lassie to go;
So, she'll shust dance hersel', her fine preedings to show,
Tat she learn 'mang ta place she was porn in.
Then ta lads will cry "Lauchie, where from did you'll cam',
Tat you'll not give ta lassie ta dance an' ta dram?"
But te're a' trouster mosachs, every one shust ta sam',
They wad spulzie all her sporran ere ta mornin'.
Noo, she's thochtin' she'll yet turn a praw waiter's pell,
When she wear ta fine pump an' pe dress very well;
An' py Sheorge! ere she'll stop, she'll pe maister herself,
In spite o' a' their taunts an' their scornin'.
Syne wha like ta great Maister Fraser will pe,
When she'll hing up ta sign o' the "Golden Cross Key,"
An' will sit in her parlour her orders to gie
To her waiters an' her boots in ta mornin'?
Alera Rodger.
RHYMING RAB O' OUR TOUN.
DOUN by, near our smiddy, there lives a queer boddie, As couthie an' canty's the simmer day's lang;
An' auld funny story sets him in his glory,
For aft he knocks 't into some pithy bit sang.
Tho' aye ha'flins modest, his cracks are the oddest
That ever were heard thro' the hale kintry roun',
Aye tauld aff sae freely, sae pauky an' sleely,
He's far an' near kent, Rhyming Rab o' our toun.
Tho' deep read in pages o' auld langsyne sages,
As meikle's micht maist turn the pows o' us a'.
Sent soon to the shuttle, his schule-craft's but little,
Yet auld mither Nature him kindness did shaw ;
Wi' first glint o' morning he's up, slumber scorning,
Enraptur'd hail ilk melodious soun',
Whar clear implin' burnie trots slow on its journey,
Ye're sure then to see Rhyming Rab o' our toun.
When e'en but a younker, he'd cowr in a bunker
Wi''s beuk, daft gaffawers to mixna amang,
It pleas'd him far better than gowk's sillie clatter,
The deeds o' our gutchers in auld Scottish sang.
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