And he looked about, like a body half-glaikit, On bonnie sweet Nanny, the youngest of a'.

"Ha, laird!" quo' the carlin', "and look ye that way?

Fy! let nae sic fancies bewilder ye clean;

An elderlin' man, in the noon o' the day,

And yearn'd for a sight of his winsome dearie, Raised up the latch and came crousely ben.

His coat was new, and his owerlay was white, And his hose and his mittens were cosie and bein; But a wooer that comes in braid daylight Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.

"Na, na," quo' the pawky auld wife; "I trow, You'll no fash your head wi' a youthfu' gilly, As wild and as skeigh as a muirland filly; Black Madge is far better and fitter for you."

He hem'd and he haw'd, and he drew in his mouth,

And he squeezed his blue bonnet his twa hands between,

For a wooer that comes when the sun's i' the south,

Is mair landward than wooers that come at e'en.

"Black Madge is sae carefu'"-"What's that to me?"

"She's sober and eydent, has sense in her

noddle

She's douce and respeckit." "I carena a bodle; Love winna be guided, and fancy's free."

Madge toss'd back her head wi' a saucy slight, And Nanny, loud laughing, ran out to the green; For a wooer that comes when the sun shines bright

Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.

Then away flung the laird, and loud mutter'd he, "A' the daughters of Eve, between Orkney and Tweed, O!

Black or fair, young or auld, dame or damsel, or widow,

May gang in their pride to the de'il for me!"

But the auld gudewife and her mays sae tight, Cared little for a' his stour banning, I ween; For a wooer that comes in braid daylight Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.

It fell on a morning when we were thrang-
Our kirn was gaun, our cheese was making,
And bannocks on the girdle baking-
That ane at the door chapp'd loud and lang;

But the auld gudewife, and her mays sae tight,
Of this stirring and din took sma' notice, I ween;
For a chap at the door in braid daylight
Is no like a chap when heard at e'en.

Then the clocksie auld laird of the Warlock Glen, Wha stood without, half cow'd, half cheerie,

And his bare lyart pow he smoothly straikit, And lookit about, like a body half glaikit, On bonny sweet Nanny, the youngest of a': "Ha, ha!" quo' the carlin, "and look ye that way?

Hoot! let nae sic fancies bewilder ye clean---
An elderlin' man, i' the noon o' the day,
Should be wiser than youngsters that come at
e'en."

"Na, na," quo' the pawky auld wife; "I trow You'll fash na your head wi' a youthfu' gilly, As wild and as skeigh as a muirland filly; Black Madge is far better and fitter for you." He hem'd and he haw'd, and he screw'd in his mouth,

And he squeezed his blue bonnet his twa hands between,

For wooers that come when the sun's in the south

Are mair awkward than wooers that come at e'en. "Black Madge she is prudent." "What's that

to me?"

"She is eident and sober, has sense in her noddle

Is douce and respeckit." "I carena a boddle; I'll bauk na my luve, and my fancy's free."

Madge toss'd back her head wi' a saucy slight, And Nanny ran laughing out to the green;

For wooers that come when the sun shines bright,

Are no like the wooers that come at e'en.

Awa' flung the laird, and loud mutter'd he, "All the daughters of Eve, between Orkney and Tweed, 0:

Black and fair, young and old, dame, damsel, and widow,

May gang wi' their pride to the wuddy for me.'
But the auld gudewife, and her mays sae tight,
For a' his loud banning cared little, I ween;
For a wooer that comes in braid daylight
Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en.

POVERTY PARTS GOOD COMPANY.

When my o'erlay was white as the foam o' the lin, And siller was chinking my pouches within; When my lambkins were bleating on meadow and brae,

As I went to my love in new cleeding sae gay

Kind was she, and my friends were free,
But poverty parts good company.

How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of delight! When piper played cheerly, and crusie burn'd bright;

And linked in my hand was the maiden sae dear! As she footed the floor in her holiday gear.

Woe is me; and can it then be,

That poverty parts sic company?

We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk;
We met i' the sunshine, we met i' the mirk;
And the sound o' her voice, and the blinks o'
her een,

The cheering and life of my bosom hae been.
Leaves frae the tree, at Martinmas flee,
And poverty parts sweet company.

At bridal and in fair, I've braced me wi' pride,
The bruse I hae won, and a kiss o' the bride;
And loud was the laughter, gay fellows among,
As I utter'd my banter, or chorus'd my song:
Dowie and dree are jestin' and glee,
When poverty spoils good company.
Wherever I gaed kindly lasses look'd sweet,
And mithers and aunties were unco discreet;
While kebbuck and bicker were set on the board;
But now they pass by me, and never a word!

Sae let it be, for the worldly and slie
Wi' poverty keep nae company.

But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart; And the spaewife has tauld me to keep up my heart;

For wi' my last saxpence her loof I hae crossed,
And the bliss that is fated can never be lost.

Though cruelly we may ilka day see
How poverty parts dear company.

In ribbons and mantuas that gar me gae barely! O, gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,

O, gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly!

I' the kirk sic commotion last Sabbath she made,
Wi' babs o' red roses, and breast-knots o'erlaid;
The Dominie stickit the psalm very nearly:

O, gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,

O, gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly!

She's warring and flyting frae mornin' till e'en,
And if ye gainsay her, her een glow'r sae keen,
Then tongue, neive, and cudgel she'll lay on ye
sairly:

O, gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,

O, gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly!

When tired wi' her cantrips, she lies in her bed,
The wark a' negleckit, the chaumer unred-
While a' our guid neighbours are stirring sae early:

O, gin my wife wad work timely and fairly!
Timely and fairly, timely and fairly,

O, gin my wife wad work timely and fairly!

A word o' guid counsel or grace she'll hear none;
She bandies the Elders, and mocks at Mess John,
While back in his teeth his own text she flings
rarely:

O, gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly;
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,

O, gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly!

I wish I were single, I wish I were freed;
I wish I were doited, I wish I were dead,
Or she in the mouls, to dement me nae mair, lay!
What does it 'vail to cry, Hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,
Wasting my breath to cry, Hooly and fairly.

HOOLY AND FAIRLY.

(FOUNDED ON AN OLD SCOTCH SONG.)

Oh, neighbours! what had I ado for to marry!
My wife she drinks posset and wine o' Canary,
And ca's me a niggardly, thraw-gabbit cairly.

O, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,

O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!

She sups wi' her kimmers on dainties enow,
Aye bowing and smirking and wiping her mou',
While I sit aside, and am helpit but sparely.

O, gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly!
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,

O, gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly!

To fairs and to bridals and preachings and a', She gangs sae light-headed and buskit sae braw,

THE BLACK-COCK.

Good morrow to thy sable beak,
And glossy plumage, dark and sleck;
Thy crimson moon and azure eye,
Cock of the heath, so wildly shy!
I see thee, slyly cowering, through
That wiry web of silver dew,
That twinkles in the morning air,
Like casement of my lady fair.

A maid there is in yonder tower,
Who, peeping from her early bower,
Half shows, like thee, with simple wile,
Her braided hair and morning smile.
The rarest things with wayward will,
Beneath the covert hide them still;

The rarest things, to light of day Look shortly forth, and shrink away.

One fleeting moment of delight,
I sunn'd me in her cheering sight;
And short, I ween, the term will be,
That I shall parley hold with thee.
Through Snowdon's mist red beams the day:
The climbing herd-boy chaunts his lay;
The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring;
Thou art already on the wing!

SAY, SWEET CAROL!
(FROM ETHWALD: A TRAGEDY.)

Say, sweet carol, who are they
Who cheerly greet the rising day?
Little birds in leafy bower;
Swallows twitt'ring on the tower;
Larks upon the light air borne;
Hunters rous'd with shrilly horn;
The woodman whistling on his way;
The new-waked child at early play,
Who barefoot prints the dewy green,
Winking to the sunny sheen;

And the meek maid who binds her yellow hair,
And blithely doth her daily task prepare.

Say, sweet carol, who are they Who welcome in the evening gray? The housewife trim, and merry lout, Who sit the blazing fire about; The sage a conning o'er his book; The tired wight, in rushy nook, Who, half asleep, but faintly hears The gossip's tale hum in his cars; The loosen'd steed in grassy stall; The proud Thanes feasting in the hall; But most of all the maid of cheerful soul, Who fills her peaceful warrior's flowing bowl.

TO A CHILD.

Whose imp art thou, with dimpled cheek,
And curly pate, and merry eye,
And arm and shoulder round and sleek,
And soft and fair?-thou urchin sly!

What boots it who, with sweet caresses, First called thee his,-or squire or hind? Since thou in every wight that passes

Dost now a friendly playmate find.

Thy downcast glances, grave, but cunning,
As fringed eye-lids rise and fall;
Thy shyness, swiftly from me running,
Is infantine coquetry all.

But far afield thou hast not flown;

With mocks and threats half-lisp'd, halfspoken,

I feel thee pulling at my gown,

Of right good-will thy simple token.

And thou must laugh, and wrestle too,
A mimic warfare with me waging;
To make, as wily lovers do,

Thy after-kindness more engaging.

The wilding rose, sweet as thyself,
And new-cropt daisies, are thy treasure:
I'd gladly part with worldly pelf,
To taste again thy youthful pleasure!

But yet, for all thy merry look,

Thy frisks and wiles, the time is coming, When thou shalt sit in cheerless nook, The weary spell or horn-book thumbing. Well; let it be!-through weal and woe Thou know'st not now thy future range; Life is a motley, shifting show,

And thou a thing of hope and change!

THE GOWAN GLITTERS ON THE
SWARD.

The gowan glitters on the sward,
The lavrock's in the sky,
And collie on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.

Oh no! sad and slow,
And lengthen'd on the ground,
The shadow of our trysting-bush,
It wears so slowly round!

My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west,
My lambs are bleating near,
But still the sound that I lo'e best,
Alack! I canna' hear.

Oh no! sad and slow,
The shadow lingers still,

And like a lanely ghaist I stand And croon upon the hill.

I hear below the water roar,
The mill wi' clacking din,

And Lucky scolding frae her door,
To ca' the bairnies in.

Oh no! sad and slow,