larabella,
How that wondrous thing befell,
Why you took that sorry fellow,
Leaving me who loved you well?
It was, good faith! a sad miscarriage,
And cost me many a pang of pain;
Indeed, when I heard of your marriage,
I vowed I ne'er would love again."

"Well, I don't mind, since you're pathetic,
And so the reason you shall hear:
Th' affair was one of arithmetic--
A matter of so much a year.
His father left five thousand good
Of pounds per annum, as you know,
And you possessed, I understood,
Of yearly thousands only two."

"Well, why did I, who knew of Cupid,
Display so much stupid-ity
As not to know--the thing was lucid--
From Cupid comes Cupid-ity?"
"But not too late," cried Clarabella:
"My husband dear has gone to heaven;
He left the five to me, good fellow!
And five and two, you know, make seven."

I laughed and bowed to Clarabella,
And quickly homewards bent my way,
And there became a rustic fellow,
And donned a suit of hodden-grey.
And then I hired me to a farmer,
Concealing every sign of pelf,
One Hodge, who had a pretty charmer,
Who might love me for myself.

I laid bold siege to fair Lucinda,
And tho' she loved another swain
(I had observed them through the window),
I was resolved her love to gain
Then I would be a lucky fellow,
Assured one loved me for my merit,
And not, like widowed Clarabella,
For the lucre _I_ inherit.

At length I boldly purposed marriage,
And found Lucinda at my call,
And soon thereafter in my carriage
I drove my wife to Border Hall.
Well! she wondered at the mansion,
And all the grandeur that was there,
The servants bowing all attention
To the lady of their squire.

I had a call from Clarabella,
Who said my choice was very good;
But though her speech was calm and mellow,
I thought her in an envious mood.
Indeed I had some small suspicion
She had avenged a woman's grudge,
And had conveyed my true condition
To the ears of Farmer Hodge.

Sometime thence I met Bill Hedger,
Who knew me spite of my changed dress.
"Squoire," said he, "I think I'd wager
There is a something thee doan't guess;
Lucinda's father knew by letter
Thee wert a squoire in low disguise,
And she, altho' _she loiked me better_,
Agreed to take the richer prize."

XXII.

THE SONG OF ROSALIE.

Row on! row on! to flowing Tay,
Thou Dighty, who art dear to me;
For here upon thy flowery brae
I parted last frae Rosal