er fine Sawbath black,
Richt brawly I kent that ye saw me,
But ye just slippit oot at the back.

Christina, 'twas shamefu'--aye was it!
Affrontin' a man like mysel',
I'm thinkin' ye're daft, for what ails ye
Is past comprehension to tell.

Guid stuff's no sae common, Christina,
And whiles it's no easy to see;
Ye micht tryst wi' the Laird or the Provost,
But ye'll no find the marrows[8] o' me!

[8] Match.

THE LAST O' THE TINKLER

Lay me in yon place, lad,
The gloamin's thick wi' nicht;
I canna' see yer face, lad,
For my een's no richt,
But it's owre late for leein',
An' I ken fine I'm deein',
Like an auld craw fleein'
To the last o' the licht.

The kye gang to the byre, lad,
An' the sheep to the fauld,
Ye'll mak' a spunk o' fire, lad,
For my he'rt's turned cauld;
An' whaur the trees are meetin',
There's a sound like waters beatin',
An' the bird seems near to greetin',
That was aye singin' bauld.

There's jist the tent to leave, lad,
I've gaithered little gear,
There's jist yersel' to grieve, lad,
An' the auld dug here;
An' when the morn comes creepin',
An' the waukw'nin' birds are cheipin',
It'll find me lyin' sleepin'
As I've slept saxty year.

Ye'll rise to meet the sun, lad,
An' baith be traiv'lin west,
But me that's auld an' done, lad,
I'll bide an' tak' my rest;
For the grey heid is bendin',
An' the auld shune's needin' mendin',
But the traiv'lin's near its endin',
And the end's aye the best.

IN ENGLISH

FRINGFORD BROOK

The willows stand by Fringford brook,
From Fringford up to Hethe,
Sun on their cloudy silver heads,
And shadow underneath.

They ripple to the silent airs
That stir the lazy day,
Now whitened by their passing hands,
Now turned again to grey.

The slim marsh-thistle's purple plume
Droops tasselled on the stem,
The golden hawkweeds pierce like flame
The grass that harbours them;

Long drowning tresses of the weeds
Trail where the stream is slow,
The vapoured mauves of water-mint
Melt in the pools below;

Serenely soft September sheds
On earth her slumberous look,
The heartbreak of an anguished world
Throbs not by Fringford brook.

All peace is here. Beyond our range,
Yet 'neath the selfsame sky,
The boys that knew these fields of home
By Flemish willows lie.

They waded in the sun-shot flow,
They loitered in the shade,
Who trod the heavy road of death,
Jesting and