He's craigs an' castles, cots an' ha's,
Lint mills, auld brigs, an' water fa's,
Auld stumps o' trees an' cowpit wa's^[1]
  A treat to see't.

O'er vera hills he's gi'en a ca',
Frae Rullion Green yont ta' Mentma';
An' brawer pictures I ne'er saw,
  They're fair perfection:
They'd even mense^[2] a baron's ha'
  That rare collection.

Thanks tae ye, noo, for paintin' bonnie
The "Lanely Bield," whaur dwells a cronie,
Wha likes a nicht wi' ane sae funny
  An' fu' o' glee:
I trow Auld Reekie has nae mony
  Tae match wi' thee.

It mak's me dowie the news I hear
That ye're no comin' oot this year;
They tell me that ye're gaun tae steer
  For Lunnon toon:
Losh, man, I'll miss ye sair I fear
  No' comin' doon.

But gif I'm spared wi' health ava,
A holiday, or may be twa,
I'll tak' an' come tae see ye a',
  An' bide a' nicht;
An' faith we'll sing tae the cock's craw
  At "grey daylicht."

Alex. Farquharson.

Lanely Bield.

Wha e'er wad think sae fair a flow'r
Wad be sae pawky^[3] as to lure
A midge intae its genty bow'r
  O' bristles bricht,
An' syne at leisure clean devour
  It oot o' sicht?

Your crimson colour's sae enticin'
In simmer gin the sun be risin'
I daursay they'll need nae advisin'
  Tae step in ow'r
Tae view an' find the plan surprisin'
  O sic a bow'r.