MY DEAR LITTLE LASSIE. My dear little lassie, why, what's a' the matter? Thy praise, bonnie lassie, I ever could hear of, In har'st, whan the kirn-supper joys mak' us cheerie, My breast thrill'd in rapture, I couldna tell how. Whan we dance at the gloamin it's you I aye pitch on, And gin ye gang by me how dowie I be; There's something, dear lassie, about ye bewitching, That tells me my happiness centres in thee. I copied this happy and delicate song from a manuscript belonging to my friend Dr. Darling. It is sung to the tune of Bonnie Dundee. THE FISHER'S WELCOME We twa hae fish'd the Kale sae clear, We've tried the Wansbeck an' the Wear, The Teviot an' the Tweed; An' we will try them ance again When summer suns are fine, An' we'll thraw the flie thegither yet For the days o' lang syne. 'Tis mony years sin' first we met An' clad in his last claes; Grim Death he heuks us a', For we are hale an' hearty baith, Tho' frosty are our pows, We still can guide our fishing graith, An' climb the dykes and knowes; We'll mount our creels an' grip our gads, An' thraw a sweeping line; An' we'll hae a plash amang the lads, Tho' Cheviot's top be frosty still, Sae don your plaid an' tak your gad, An' gang awa' wi' me. Come busk your flies, my auld We're fidgin' a' fu' fain, compeer, We've fish'd the Coquet mony a year, An' hameward when we toddle back, When ilka chiel maun tell his crack, We've shown we're good at water yet, We'll crack how mony a creel we've fill'd, How mony a line we've flung, How many a ged an' sawmon kill'd In days when we were young. We'll gar the callants a look blue, An' sing anither tune; They're bleezing aye o' what they'll do-- This clever song is the work of an Englishman; and had it come from a Caledonian bard, the costume of language, and the spirit of the "North Countrie," could not have been more perfect. It is one of the annual Fisher's Garlands which Newcastle sends out to the world, and to which the graver of Bewick adds such charms of truth and nature as seldom accompany lyric poetry. In reading the song-a trout stream, slightly swelled by an upland shower, gushes out upon one's fancy-a rod comes into our hand-we cast a careful line upon the rippling water-we watch the well-dissembled flies, and our patience is rewarded by casting "A trout bedropped with crimson hail," upon the grassy bank. Burns, who went to angle in the Nith with a huge fur cap on, and a highland broadsword by his side, knew little of the art compared to my excellent friend of Newcastle. THE BLUE BIRD. When winter's cold tempests and snows are no more, Then loud piping frogs make the marshes to ring, He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree, And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms: He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours, The worms from their beds where they riot and welter ; His song and his services freely are ours, And all that he asks is in summer a shelter. |