But a plaid, wi' bare houghs,
He braves the bleakest norlan' blast.

"Brawly can he dance and sing,
Canty glee or Highland cronach;
Nane can ever match his fling,
At a reel or round a ring,
In a brawl he 's aye the bangster:
A' his praise can ne'er be sung
By the langest-winded sangster;
Sangs that sing o' Sandy,
Seem short, though they were e'er sae lang."

WILLIAM REID.

William Reid was born at Glasgow on the 10th of April 1764. His father,
a baker by trade, was enabled to give him a good education at the school
of his native city. At an early age he was apprenticed to Messrs Dunlop
and Wilson, booksellers; and in the year 1790, along with another
enterprising individual, he commenced a bookselling establishment, under
the firm of "Brash and Reid." In this business, both partners became
eminently successful, their shop being frequented by the _literati_ of
the West. The poet Burns cultivated the society of Mr Reid, who proved a
warm friend, as he was an ardent admirer, of the Ayrshire bard. He was
an enthusiastic patron of literature, was fond of social humour, and a
zealous promoter of the interests of Scottish song. Between 1795 and
1798, the firm published in numbers, at one penny each, "Poetry,
Original and Selected," which extended to four volumes. To this
publication, both Mr Reid, and his partner, Mr Brash, made some original
contributions. The work is now very scarce, and is accounted valuable by
collectors. Mr Reid died at Glasgow, on the 29th of November 1831,
leaving a widow and a family.

THE LEA RIG.[35]

Will ye gang o'er the lea rig,
My ain kind dearie, O!
And cuddle there fu' kindly
Wi' me, my kind dearie, O!
At thorny bush, or birken tree,
We 'll daff and never weary, O!
They 'll scug ill een frae you and me,
My ain kind dearie, O!

Nae herds wi' kent or colly there,
Shall ever come to fear ye, O!
But lav'rocks, whistling in the air,
Shall woo, like me, their dearie, O!
While ithers herd their lambs and ewes,
And toil for warld's gear, my jo,
Upon the lea my pleasure grows,
Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O!

At gloamin', if my lane I be,
Oh, but I'm wondrous eerie, O!
And mony a heavy sigh I gie,
When absent frae my dearie, O!
But seated 'neath the milk-white thorn,
In ev'ning fair and clearie, O!
Enraptured