Syne a' behind's our ain.

Thus without fear,

With love and rowth1 we thro' the warld will steer ; And when my Pate in bairns and gear grow rife, He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife.

Jenny.

But what if some young giglit on the green
With dimpled cheek and twa bewitching een,
Should gar your Patie think his half worn Meg
And her ken'd kisses, hardly worth a feg?

Peggy.

Nae mair of that. Dear Jenny, to be free,
There's some men constanter in love than we
Nor is the ferly great, when nature kind

2

Has blest them with solidity of mind;

They'll reason calmly and with kindness smile,
When our short passions wad our peace beguile.
Sae, whensoe'er they slight their maiks3 at hame,
'Tis ten to ane their wives are maist to blame.
Then I'll employ with pleasure a' my art
To keep him cheerfu', and secure his heart.
At e'en, when he comes weary frae the hill,
I'll have a' things made ready to his will;
In winter, when he toils thro' wind and rain,
A bleezing-ingle and a clean hearth-stane;
And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff,
The seething pots be ready to take aff;
Clean hagabag I'll spread upon his board,
And serve him with the best we can afford;
Good-humour and white bigonets shall be
Guards to my face, to keep his love for me.
Jenny.

A dish of married love right soon grows cauld,
And dosens down to nane, as fowk grow auld.
Peggy.

But we'll grow auld together, and ne'er find
The loss of youth, where love grows on the mind.
Bairns and their bairns make sure a firmer tie
Than aught in love the like of us can spy.

plenty. 2 wonder. 3 mates. • linen caps.

5 dwindles

See yon twa elms that grow up side by side,

Suppose them some years syne bridegroom and bride :
Nearer and nearer ilka year they've prest,

Till wide their spreading branches are increas'd,
And in their mixture now are fully blest :
This shields the other frae the eastlin blast,
That in return defends it frae the wast.

Sic as stand single (a state sae liked by you),
Beneath ilk storm frae every airt1 maun bow.

Jenny.

I've done. I yield dear lassie, I maun yield;
Your better sense has fairly won the field,
With the assistance of a little fae

Lies dern'd' within my breast this mony a day.

PATIE AND PEGGY.

Patie.

By the delicious warmness of thy mouth

3

And rowing eye, which smiling tells the truth,
I guess, my lassie, that, as well as I,

You're made for love, and why should ye deny?
Peggy.

But ken ye, lad, gin we confess o'er soon,
Ye think us cheap, and syne the wooing's done:
The maiden that o'er quickly tines her power,
Like unripe fruit will taste but hard and sour.

Patie.

But when they hing o'er lang upon the tree,
Their sweetness they may tine, and sae may ye;
Red-cheeked you completely ripe appear,

And I have tholed and wooed a lang half-year.

Peggy.

Then dinna pu' me; gently thus I fa'

Into my Patie's arms for good and a'.

But stint your wishes to this kind embrace,

5

And mint nae farther till we've got the grace.

quarter.

2 hidden.

• rolling. • suffered.

5 aim.

Patie.

O charming armfu'! Hence, ye cares away.
I'll kiss my treasure a' the livelang day:
A' night I'll dream my kisses o'er again,
Till that day come that ye'll be a' my ain.

Chorus.

Sun, gallop down the westling skies,
Gang soon to bed, and quickly rise;
Olash your steeds, post time away,
And haste about our bridal day;
And if ye're wearied, honest light,
Sleep, gin ye like, a week that night.

[From The Tea-Table Miscellany.]

THROUGH THE WOOD, LADDIE.

O Sandy, why leaves thou thy Nelly to mourn?
Thy presence would ease me

When naething could please me,

Now dowie I sigh on the bank of the burn,
Ere through the wood, laddie, until thou return.

Though woods now are bonny, and mornings are clear,
While lavrocks are singing

And primroses springing,

Yet nane of them pleases my eye or my ear,
When through the wood, laddie, ye dinna appear.

That I am forsaken some spare no to tell;
I'm fashed wi' their scorning

Baith evening and morning;

Their jeering aft gae; to my heart wi' a. knell,
When through the wood, laddie, I wander myseľ.

Then stay, my dear Sandie, nae langer away,

But quick as an arrow,

Haste here to thy marrow,

Wha's living in languor till that happy day,

When through the wood, laddie, we'll dance, sing, and play

AN THOU WERE MY AIN THING.

An thou were my ain thing,

I would love thee, I would love thee;
An thou were my ain thing

How dearly I would love thee.

Like bees that suck the morning dew, Frae flowers of sweetest scent and hue, Sae wad I dwell upon thy mow

And gar the gods envý me.

Sae lang's I had the use of light
I'd on thy beauties feast my sight,
Syne in saft whispers through the night
I'd tell how much I loved thee.

How fair and ruddy is my Jean!
She moves a goddess o'er the green.
Were I a king thou should be queen-
Nane but myself aboon thee.

I'ld grasp thee to this breast of mine,
Whilst thou like ivy on the vine
Around my stronger limbs should twine,
Formed handy to defend thee.

Time's on the wing and will not stay,
In shining youth let's make our hay;
Since love admits of no delay,

O let na scorn undo thee.

While love does at his altar stand

Hae, here's my heart, gie me thy hand, And with ilk smile thou shalt command The will of him who loves thee.

An thou were my ain thing,

I would love thee, I would love thee;

An thou were my ain thing,

How dearly I would love thee.

JAMES THOMSON.

[JAMES THOMSON was born at Ednam in Roxburghshire on the 11th of September, 1700, and died at Kew on the 27th of August, 1748. His first published work, Winter, appeared in 1726. The next year Summer, Britannia, and a few minor poems followed. Spring was not published till 1728, and Autumn in 1730 completed The Seasons. Sophonisba, the first of several dramas, appeared in the same year as Spring. The first three parts or cantos of Liberty were given to the world in 1735, the two last in 1737. The Castle of Indolence appeared in 1746, two years before Thomson's death.]

No competent criticism of any school has ever denied Thomson's claim to a place, high if not of the highest, among poets of the second order. His immense and enduring popularity would settle the question, if it had ever been seriously debated. For the orbis terrarum may indeed judge without hesitation on such a point, when its judgment is ratified beforehand by many generations. Popularity which outlasts changes of manners and fashions is a testimony to worth which cannot be left out of the account, and Thomson's popularity is eminently of this kind. Neither the somewhat indiscriminate admiration of the romantic style, of which Percy set the fashion, nor the naturalism of Cowper, nor the great revolution championed in various ways by Scott, by the Lakists, and by Byron, nor the still more complete revolution of Shelley and Keats, availed to shake the hold of The Seasons on the popular mind. Every one knows Coleridge's remark on seeing a dogs-eared copy on an inn window-sill. During the last century the reading of poetry, except that of contemporary authors, has somewhat gone out of fashion, yet no one who does read The Seasons, much more