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Whare through the birks the burnie rows,
Aft hae I sat fu' cheerie-o,
Among the bonnie greensward howes,

Wi' thee, my kind dearie-o.
I've courted till I've heard the craw

Of honest Chanticleerie-o,
Yet never miss'd my sleep ava,
Whan wi' my kind dearie-o.

For though the night were ne'er sae dark,
And I were ne'er sae weary-o,

I'd meet thee on the lea rig,

My ain kind dearie-o.

While in this weary warld of wae,

This wilderness sae drearie-o,

What makes me blithe, and keeps me sae?
'Tis thee, my kind dearie-o.

The first two verses of this song were written by the unfortunate Robert Ferguson, a poet of fine genius and irregular life, whose works bear promise of expanding powers, and a more exalted and consistent song. The first time I ever saw his poems, their perusal was accompanied by an anecdote of the author too characteristic not to be true. "He was a strange lad," said my friend, "and as wild as a poet ought to be. One day, in Dumfries, I saw a pale young man in an odd cap and a flannel jacket, staring at the crowds, who were staring at him. Some said he was mad, some said he was winning a wager, and some said he was a poet.—

This last conjecture was right;-it was Robert Ferguson, who, from some idle vaunt, or for some foolish wager, undertook to walk from Edinburgh to Dumfries in that strange dress, and performed his undertaking." The three additional verses are written by Mr. William Reid, bookseller in Glasgow. They are executed much in the feeling and manner of the original song.

WHAT AILS THE LASSES AT ME.

I am a young bachelor winsome,
A farmer by rank and degree,

And few I see gang out more handsome
To kirk or to market than me.

I've outsight and insight, and credit,
And frae onie eelist I'm free;
I'm weel enough boarded and bedded,---
What ails the lasses at me?

My bughts of good store are na scanty,
My byres are weel stock'd wi' kye;
Of meal in my girnels there's plenty,
And twa or three easements forby.
A horse to ride out when they're weary,
And cock wi' the best they can see;
And then be ca't dautie and deary,-
I wonder what ails them at me.

I've tried them, baith highland and lowland,
Where I a fair bargain could see;
The black and the brown were unwilling,
The fair anes were warst o' the three.
With jooks and wi' scrapes I've addressed them,
Been with them baith modest and free;
But whatever way I caressed them,

They were cross and were canker'd wi' me.

There's wratacks, and cripples, and cranshanks,
And a' the wandoghts that I ken,
Nae sooner they smile on the lasses,
Than they are ta'en far enough ben.
But when I speak to them that's stately,
I find them aye ta'en wi' the gee,
And get the denial fu❜ flatly;—
What think ye can ail them at me?

I have a gude offer to make them,
If they would but hearken to me;
And that is, I'm willing to take them,
Gin they wad be honest and free.
Let her wha likes best write a billet,
And send the sweet message to me;
By sun and by moon, I'll fulfil it,

Though crooked or crippled she be!

To the poet's challenge a very long and a very dull answer was written, and signed "Jeanie Gradden," which follows the song in many collections. I have

denuded the present lyric of two verses, and still it is long enough. The author, Alexander Ross, had not learned the art of being brief;-he continued to sing while there was any hope of a listener. Burns calls him "Ross, the wild warlock," but there is little witchery in his verse; it is humble, and homely, and accurate.

THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE.

And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?

Is this a time to talk o' wark?
Ye jades, fling by your wheel!
Is this a time to think of wark,
When Colin's at the door?

Gie me my cloak! I'll to the quay,

And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck ava;

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa.'

Rise up, and mak a clean fire-side,
Put on the muckle pot;

Gie little Kate her cotton gown,

And Jock his Sunday coat;

And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;

It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
He likes to see them braw.

There's twa hens upon the bauk,
Been fed this month and mair,

Mak haste and thra their necks about,

That Colin weel may fare;

And spread the table neat and clean,

Gar ilka thing look braw;

It's a' for love of my gudeman,

For he's been lang awa'.

O gie me down my bigonets,

My bishop-sattin gown;

And rin an' tell the Baillie's wife

That Colin's come to town:

My Sunday shoon they maun gae on,

My hose o' pearl blue;

It's a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's baith leal and true.

Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air!

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When he comes up the stair:

And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy with the thought,

In troth I'm like to greet.

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