pence I 'll be viewin' o't,
And jink the rude blast in my rush-theekit ha',
Whan fields are seal'd up from the plowin' o't.
My bonny wee wifie, the bairnies, and me,
The peat-stack, and turf-stack our Phoebus shall be,
Till day close the scoul o' its angry ee,
And we 'll rest in gude hopes o' the plowin' o't.

And whan the year smiles, and the lavrocks sing,
My man Jock and me shall be doin' o't;
He 'll thrash, and I 'll toil on the fields in the spring,
And turn up the soil at the plowin' o't.
And whan the wee flow'rets begin then to blaw,
The lavrock, the peasweep, and skirlin' pickmaw,
Shall hiss the bleak winter to Lapland awa,
Then we 'll ply the blythe hours at the sawin' o't.

And whan the birds sing on the sweet simmer morn,
My new crap I 'll keek at the growin' o't;
Whan hares niffer love 'mang the green-bairdit corn,
And dew draps the tender blade shewin' o't,
On my brick o' fallow my labours I 'll ply,
And view on their pasture my twa bonny kye,
Till hairst-time again circle round us wi' joy,
Wi' the fruits o' the sawin' and plowin' o't.

Nor need I to envy our braw gentle focks,
Wha fash na their thumbs wi' the sawing o't,
Nor e'er slip their fine silken hands in the pocks,
Nor foul their black shoon wi' the plowin' o't:
For, pleased wi' the little that fortune has lent,
The seasons row round us in rural content;
We 've aye milk and meal, and our laird gets his rent,
And I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't.

SYMON AND JANET.

AIR--_"Fy, let us a' to the Bridal."_

Surrounded wi' bent and wi' heather,
Whare muircocks and plivers are rife,
For mony lang towmond thegither,
There lived an auld man and his wife.

About the affairs o' the nation,
The twasome they seldom were mute;
Bonaparte, the French, and invasion,
Did saur in their wizens like soot.

In winter, when deep are the gutters,
And night's gloomy canopy spread,
Auld Symon sat luntin' his cuttie,
And lowsin' his buttons for bed.

Auld Janet, his wife, out a-gazin',
To lock in the door was her care;
She seein' our signals a-blazin',
Came runnin' in, rivin' her hair.

"O Symon, the Frenchmen are landit!
Gae look man, and slip on your shoon;
Our signals I see them extendit,
Like red