For oot again they canna wun;
Tho' wee an' gleg,[1] they're fairly done,
I wad they'll get an awfu' stun
Gin its deteckit
They've death tae face an' no' the fun
That they expeckit.
It serves them richt, the wicked crew,
De'il gin the lave were in your mou'!
For oh! they're ill tae thole the noo
When bitin' keen,
Dingin' their beaks intae ane's broo
Up tae the een!
Ilk foggy[2] sheugh aroond ye scan,
An' nip as mony as ye can,
'Twill help a wee tae gar ye stan'
The winter weather,
For fient a midge ye'll pree[3] gin than
Amang the heather.
I kenna hoo ye'll fend ava
Gin a' the muirs are clad wi' snaw.
I doot ye'll hae tae snooze awa'
Sax months at least,
An' aiblins then your chance is sma'
Tae get a feast.
But gin I happen ere tae stray
Neist August roond by Jenny's Brae,
I hope tae see ye fresh an' gay,
Wee muirlan' plantie!
Wi' routh[4] o' midges then tae slay
Tae keep ye cantie.
A. F.
Lanely Bield.
ADDRESS TAE A MATTHEW HARDIE FIDDLE.
Ae blink at you an' ane could tell
That ye're nae foreign factory shell,
But a Scotch mak', an', like mysel',
Made gey and sturdy;
An' as for tone, there'll few excel
Ma guid auld Hardie.
Ye've been ma hobbie late and sune,
Noo sax an' twenty years come June,
An' noo and than I tak' a tune;
Yet gin I weary.
Altho' it's but a kin' o' croon,
It keeps ane cheery.