Auld Mouldybrugh fairly was rowed aff its feet,

And naething gat leave to stand still;

They pulled doun the houses, and widened the street,
And biggit a muckle brick mill.

And droves o' new comers, that naebody kent,
Were workin', they kentna at what ;
The bodies were just in a perfect ferment,
And didna ken what to be at.

Sic smashin' and chappin' was a' round about,
Sic clankin', sic rattlin', an' din;

Wi' rocks blaun like thunder frae quarries without,
And smiddies an' reeshlin' within ;

And wheelbarrows drivin' a' hours of the day,
Wi' Eerishmen swearin' like Turks;

And horses were fechtin' wi' cartfu's o' clay,
And plaister and stanes for the works.

Soon a' kinds o' traders cam' flockin' in shoals,
The railway brocht wonders to pass;
Colliers cam howkin' to sair us wi' coals,

And gas-bodies cam' to make gas;

And butchers sae greasy, wi' sheep, beef, and pigs,
And schoolmasters cam' for the teachin';
And doctors wi' doses, and barbers wi' wigs,
And kirks were ereckit for preachin'.

But dearer to me is the auld biggit toon,

Wi' its cottages hoary and grey,

Where naething is altered, and naething dung doon,

Except by the hand of decay.

And O for the bodies sae simple and plain,

Aye faithfu', and kindly, and true;

And O! for the days that we'll ne'er see again,
When they dreamt na of onything new!

B. H.

THE PRIDEFU' TAID.

AIR-" Nancy's to the greenwood gane."

Wow me! for sic a pridefu' taid
Our Tibbie's grown, the hizzie ;
She cuts sic capers wi' her head,
'Twadding a bodie dizzie.

D'ye think it's her braw clouts o' claes
That mak's her look sae saucy?
Her bannet's but a bunch o' straes,
Does she ken that? vain lassie !

A cauldrife silken tippet's neist
Aboon her shoulders wavin' ;
A lang white ribbon, round her waist,
Hangs like a crookit shavin'!

What tho' her slender sides shine braw
Wi' dashin' duds o' muslin,

Her share o' mither wit's but sma',
As yon new cleckit goslin'.

On Sunday, see her trip to kirk

Wi' rhymin' Rab, auld Nan's son ;
Neist day, she's aff wi' this gay spark,
To some grand ball o' dancin'.
Sae Tibbie means to let her life

Dance down the paths o' pleasure,
An' thinks, nae doubt, soon for his wife,
The chield will gladly seize her.

But thoughtless Tib, my bonnie doo,
I'm fley'd ye'll be mistaken;
For promise never yet prov'd true
Frae chiels wha gang a rakin'.

The days o' peace your breast now feels,
Will change to months o' mournin';
Frae ane wha kens sic flighty chiels,
Dear Tibbie, tak' a warnin'!

Rob+ Camuchael

THE HAPPY PAIR.

AIR-" Johnnie M'Gill."

Low down in a valley fu' snugly and braw,
There liv'd a blythe bodie o' saxty an' twa;
Nae wranglin' to deave him, nor sorrow to grieve him,
He aye was contented an' happy wi' a'.

On his ain snug bit craftie, delighted fu' aft he
Belabour'd frae mornin' to 'enin' awa';
Sae cheery an' dainty, he sang like a lintie,
Till gloamin', when darkness began for to fa'.
For Bessie his wifie, to comfort his life aye,
Wad cleed him fu' cozie, in time o' the snaw;
And tho' she was fifty, sae tidy and thrifty,

She aye made her hallan to shine like a ha'.

Near han' was a weddin', the bodies war bidden,
An' there they were buskit, fu' cleanly and braw;
But fu' o' rejoicin' they thocht na o' risin',

Until that the daylight began for to daw.

Their auld favourite doggie, a wee sleekit rogie,
Had toddled ahint them, when they gaed awa',
For aye he was timefu' to get a gude wamefu',
Altho' that he hadna ae tusk in his jaw.

Sae strong was the whisky, the carlie grew frisky,
For seldom he'd toom'd sic a drap in his maw;

But while he was cheerfu', his Bessie was fearfu'
That ony mishanter her Johnnie should fa'.

The drinkin' o' toddy, it made the auld bodie
The white o' his e'en, like the parson, to shaw;
Wi' arms high uplifted, he roar'd an' he rifted,
"I'm up in the happy place-Bess, come awa'!"

DS Buchan

FAREWELL TO SCOTIA.

FAREWEEL to ilk hill whaur the red heather grows,
To ilk bonnie green glen whaur the mountain stream rows,
To the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din,
To the graves o' my sires, and the hearths & my kin.

Farewell to ilk strath an' the lav'rock's sweet sang,
For trifles grow dear whan we've kenn'd them sae lang;
Round the wanderer's heart a bright halo they shed,
A dream o' the past, whan a' others hae fled.

The young hearts may kythe, tho' they're forced far away,
But its dool to the spirit whan haffets are grey;
The saplin' transplanted may flourish a tree

Whaur the hardy auld aik wad but wither and dee.

They tell me I gang whaur the tropic suns shine
Ower landscapes as lovely and fragrant as thine;
For the objects sae dear that the heart had entwined,
Turn eerisome hame-thoughts, and sicken the mind.

No, my spirit shall stray whaur the red heather grows!
In the bonnie green glen whaur the mountain stream rows;

'Neath the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din,

'Mang the graves o' my sires, round the hearths o' my kin.

M A, Josten

THE WIDOW MALONE.1

DID ye hear of the Widow Malone,
Ohone !

Who lived in the town of Athlone

All were courting the Widow Malone.

But so modest was Mrs. Malone,

'Twas known

Ohone !

No one ever could see her alone,

Let them ogle and sigh,

They could ne'er catch her eye,

I We acknowledge most gratefully our obligations to the Publishers of "CHARLES O'MALLEY, the Irish Dragoon," for permission to extract from that work this most exquisite Irish ballad, by Dr. Charles Lever, the author.