bud, nor summer blossoms shine,
An' low maun be my hame, sweet maid, ere I be false to thee,
Or forget the vows I breathed beneath the hawthorn tree.

THOMAS WATSON.

Thomas Watson, author of "The Rhymer's Family," a small volume of poems,
published in 1847, was born at Arbroath about the year 1807. He some
time wrought as a weaver, but has latterly adopted the trade of a
house-painter. He continues to reside in his native place.

THE SQUIRE O' LOW DEGREE.

My luve 's a flower in garden fair,
Her beauty charms the sicht o' men;
And I 'm a weed upon the wolde,
For nane reck how I fare or fen'.
She blooms in beild o' castle wa',
I bide the blast o' povertie;
My covert looks are treasures stown--
Sae how culd my luve think o' me?

My luve is like the dawn o' day,
She wears a veil o' woven mist;
And hoary cranreuch deftly flower'd,
Lies paling on her maiden breast;
Her kirtle at her jimpy waist,
Has studs o' gowd to clasp it wi'
She decks her hair wi' pearlis rare--
And how culd my luve think o' me?

My cloak is o' the Friesland gray,
My doublet o' the gay Walloon,
I wear the spurs o' siller sheen,
And yet I am a landless loon;
I ride a steed o' Flanders breed,
I beare a sword upon my theigh,
And that is a' my graith and gear--
Sae how culd my luve think o' me?

My luve's rose lips breathe sweet perfume,
Twa pearlie raws pure faire atween,
The happie dimples dent her cheeks,
And diamonds low in her dark e'en;
Her haire is o' the gowden licht,
But dark the fringes o' her bree;
Her smile wuld warm cauld winter's heart--
But how culd my luve think o' me?

My luve is tended like a queen,
She sits among her maidens fair;
There 's ane to send, and ane to sew,
And ane to kame her gowden hair;
The lutestrings luve her fingers sma',
Her lips are steept in melodie;
My heart is fu'--my e'en rin ower--
Oh, how culd my luve think o' me?

My luve she sits her palfrey white,
Mair fair to see than makar's dream
O' faery queen on moonbeam bricht,
Or mermaid on the saut sea faem.
A belted knicht is by her side,
I 'm but a squire o' low degree;
A baron halds her bridle-rein--
And how culd my luve think o' me?

But I will don the pilgrim's weeds,