eked hand
The white mist o' her sark,
But I couldna reach yon babie band
For it faded i' the dark.

My ain, my dear, your licht shall burn
Although my een grow blind,
Although they twa to saut should turn
Wi' the tears that lie behind.

O Jeanie, on my bended knee
I'll pray I may forget,
My grief is a' that's left to me,
But there's something dearer yet!

THE LAD I' THE MUNE

I

O gin I lived i' the gowden mune
Like the mannie that smiles at me,
I'd sit a' nicht in my hoose abune
An the wee-bit stars they wad ken me sune,
For I'd sup my brose wi' a gowden spune
And they wad come out to see!

II

For weel I ken that the mune's his ain
And he is the maister there;
A' nicht he's lauchin', for, fegs, there's nane
To draw the blind on his windy-pane
And tak' an' bed him, to lie his lane
And pleasure himsel' nae mair.

III

Says I to Grannie, "Keek up the glen
Abune by the rodden tree,
There's a braw lad 'yont i' the mune, ye ken."
Says she, "Awa' wi' ye, bairn, gang ben,
For noo it's little I fash wi' men
An' it's less that they fash wi' me!"

IV

When I'm as big as the tinkler-man
That sings i' the loan a' day,
I'll bide wi' him i' the tinkler-van
Wi' a wee-bit pot an' a wee-bit pan;
But I'll no tell Grannie my bonnie plan,
For I dinna ken what she'll say.

V

And, nicht by nicht, we will a' convene
And we'll be a cantie three;
We'll lauch an' crack i' the loanin' green,
The kindest billies that ever was seen,
The tinkler-man wi' his twinklin' een
And the lad i' the mune an' me!

THE GOWK

I see the Gowk an' the Gowk sees me
Beside a berry-bush by the aipple-tree.
_Old Scots Rhyme_.

'Tib, my auntie's a deil to wark,
Has me risin' 'afore the sun;
Aince her heid is abune her sark
Then the clash o' her tongue's begun!
Warslin', steerin' wi' hens an' swine,
Naucht kens she o' a freend o' mine--
But the Gowk that bides i' the woods o' Dun
He kens him fine!

Past the yaird an' ahint the stye,
O the aipples grow bonnilie!
Tib, my auntie, she canna' spy
Wha comes creepin' to kep wi' me.
Aye! she'd sort him, for, dod, she's fell!
Whisht nou, Jimmie, an' hide yersel'
An' the wice-like bird i' the aipple-tree
He winna' tell!

Aprile-month, or the aipples flower,
Tib, my auntie, will rage an' ca';
Jimmie lad, she may rin an' glower--
What care I? We'll be far awa'!
Let her seek me the le