Part 2 (1/2)

O! welcome, lovely summer, When the woods wi' music ring, An' the bees so heavy laden, To their hives their treasures bring: When we seek some shady bower, Or some lovely little dell, Or, bivock in the suns.h.i.+ne, Besides some cooling well.

O! welcome, lovely summer, With her roses in full bloom; When the cowslaps an' the laalek Deck the cottage home; When the cherry an' the berry Give a grandeur to the charm; And the clover and the hayc.o.c.k Scent the little farm.

O! welcome, lovely summer, Wi' the partridge on the wing; When the tewit an' the moorgam, Up fra the heather spring, From the crowber an' the billber, An' the bracken an' the whin; As from the noisy tadpole, We hear the crackin' din.

O! welcome, lovely summer.

Burns's Centenary.

Go bring that tuther whisky in, An' put no watter to it; Fur I mun drink a b.u.mper off, To Scotland's darlin' poet.

It's just one hunderd year to-day, This Jenewarry morn, Sin' in a lowly cot i' Kyle, A rustic bard wur born.

He kittled up his muirland harp, To ivvery rustic scene; An' sung the ways o' honest men, His Davey an' his Jean.

There wur nivver a bonny flaar that grew Bud what he could admire; There wur nivver lovely hill or dale That suited not his lyre.

At last owd Coilia sed enough, Mi bardy thah did sing, Then gently tuke his muirland harp, And brack it ivvery string.

An' bindin' up the holly wreath, Wi' all its berries red, Shoo placed it on his n.o.ble brow, An' pensively shoo said:-

”So long as w.i.l.l.i.e.s brew ther malt, An' Robs and Allans spree; Mi Burns's songs an' Burns's name, Remember'd they shall be.”

Waiting for t' Angels.

Ligging here deead, mi poor Ann Lavina, Ligging alone, mi own darling child, Just thi white hands crost on thi bosom, Wi' features so tranquil, so calm, and so mild.

Ligging here deead, so white an' so bonny, Hidding them eyes that oft gazed on mine; Asking for summat withaht ever speaking, Asking thi father to say tha wur fine.

Ligging here deead, the child that so lov'd me, At fane wod ha' hidden mi faults if shoo could; Wal thi wretch of a father despairin' stands ower tha, Wal remorse and frenzy are freezin' his blood.

Ligging here deead, i' thi shroud an thi coffin, Ligging alone in this poor wretched room; Just thi white hands crossed ower thi bosom, Waiting for t'angels to carry tha home.

The La.s.s o' Newsholme Dean.

[Having spent the whole of the afternoon in this romantic little glen, indulging in pleasant meditations, I began to wend my way down the craggy pa.s.s that leads to the bonny little hamlet of Goose Eye, and turning round to take a last glance at this enchanting vale-with its running whimpering stream-I beheld the ”La.s.s o' Newsholme Dean.” She was engaged in driving home a Cochin China hen and her chickens. Instantaneously I was seized with a poetic fit, and gazing upon her as did Robert Tannyhill upon his imaginary beauty, ”The Flower of Dumblane,” I struck my lyre, and, although the theme of my song turned out afterwards to be a respectable old woman of 70 winters, yet there is still a charm in my ”La.s.s o' Newsholme Dean.”]

Thy kiss is sweet, thy words are kind, Thy love is all to me; Aw couldn't in a palace find A la.s.s more true ner thee: An' if aw wor the Persian Shah, An' thee mi Lovely Queen, The grandest diamond i' mi Crown Wor t' la.s.s o' Newsholme Dean.

The lady gay may heed tha not, An' pa.s.sing by may sneer; The upstart squire's dowters laugh, When thou, my love, art near; But if all ther s.h.i.+nin' soverins War wared o' sattens green, They mightn't be as handsome then As t' La.s.s o' Newsholme Dean.

When yellow autumn's l.u.s.tre s.h.i.+nes, An' hangs her golden ear, An' nature's voice fra every bush Is singing sweet and clear, 'Neath some white thorn to song unknown, To mortal never seen, 'Tis there with thee I fain wad be, Mi La.s.s o' Newsholme Dean.

Od drat, who cares fur kings or queens, Mix'd in a nation's broil, They nivver benefit the poor- The poor mun ollas toil.

An' thou gilded spectre, royalty, That dazzles folks's een, Is nowt to me when I'm wi thee, Sweet La.s.s o' Newsholme Dean.

High fra the summit o' yon' crag, I view yon' smooky town, Where forten she has deigned to smile On monny a simple clown: Though free fra want, they're free fra brains; An' yet no happier I ween, Than this old farmer's wife an' hens, Aw saw i' Newsholme Dean.