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 sunshine, 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 shinin' 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 shines, 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.

The Broken Pitcher.

[The happiest moments of a soldier in times of peace are when sat round the hearth of his neat little barrack room, along with his comrades, spinning yarns and telling tales; sometimes giving the history of some famous battle or engagement in which he took a prominent part; other times he will relate his own love adventures; then the favourite of the room will oblige them with his song of "Nelson" or "Napoleon" (generally being the favourites with them);-then there is the fancy tale teller, who amuses all. But in all cases the teller of a tale, yarn, or story, makes himself the hero of it, and especially when he speaks of the la.s.s he left behind him; hence this adventure with the "La.s.sie by the Well."]

There was a bonny La.s.sie once Sitting by a well- But what this bonny La.s.sie thought I cannot, cannot tell- When by there went a cavalier Well known as Willie Wright, Just in full marching order, His armour shining bright.

"Ah maiden, lovely maiden, why Sits thou by the spring?

Dost thou seek a lover, with A golden wedding ring?

Or wherefore dost thou gaze on me, With eyes so bright and wide?

Or wherefore does that pitcher lay Broken by thy side?"

"My pitcher it is broken, sir, And this the reason is, A villian came behind me, An' he tried to steal a kiss.

I could na take his nonsense, So ne'er a word I spoke, But hit him with my pitcher, And thus you see 'tis broke."

"My uncle Jock McNeil, ye ken Now waits for me to come; He canna mak his Crowdy, Till t'watter it goes home.

I canna tak him watter, And that I ken full weel, And so I'm sure to catch it,- For he'll play the varry de'il."

"Ah maiden, lovely maiden, I pray be ruled by me; Smile with thine eyes and ruby lips, And give me kisses three.

And we'll suppose my helmet is A pitcher made o' steel, And we'll carry home some watter To thy uncle Jock McNeil."

She silently consented, for She blink'd her bonny ee, I threw mi arms around her, And gave her kisses three.

To wrong the bonny La.s.sie I sware 'twould be a sin; So knelt dahn by the watter To dip mi helmet in.

Out spake this bonny La.s.sie, "My soldier lad, forbear, I wadna spoil thi bonny plume That decks thi raven hair; Come buckle up thy sword again, Put on thi cap o' steel, I carena for my pitcher, nor My uncle Jock McNeil."

I often think, my comrades, About this Northern queen, And fancy that I see her smile, Though mountains lay between.

But should you meet her Uncle Jock, I hope you'll never tell How I squared the broken pitcher, With the La.s.sie at the well.

Ode to Sir t.i.tus Salt.

Go, string once more old Ebor's harp, And bring it here to me, For I must sing another song, The theme of which shall be,- A worthy old philanthropist, Whose soul in goodness soars, And one whose name will stand as firm As rocks that gird our sh.o.r.es; The fine old Bradford gentleman, The good Sir t.i.tus Salt.

Heedless of others; some there are, Who all their days employ To raise themselves, no matter how, And better men destroy: How different is the mind of him, Whose deeds themselves are told, Who values worth more n.o.bly far Than all the heaps of gold.

His feast and revels are not such, As those we hear and see, No princely show does he indulge, Nor feats of revelry; But in the orphan schools they are, Or in the cot with her, The widow and the orphan of The shipwrecked mariner,

When stricken down with age and care, His good old neighbours grieved, Or loss of family or mate, Or all on earth bereaved; Go see them in their houses, Where peace their days may end, And learn from them the name of him Who is their aged friend.