Wull ye meet me, Meenie Bell? Wull ye say ye’ll meet me there? An’ come afore the gloamin’ fa’s to hear what I’ve to tell? For I’m gaun away the morn, an’ I’ll weary lang an’ sair ’Or I see ye’re bonnie face again—sae meet me, Meenie Bell! I’ll be far away frae Middlebie for monie an’ monie a day; An’ I want ae curl o’ gowden hair to treasure evermore. I’ve a keepsake braw for you, an’ I’ve something mair to say— Aye! a hantle mair to tell ye than I’ve ever tell’t afore. Thus I fleech’t wee Meenie Bell till her heart grew soft and kin’ An’ she met me near the burnie as the simmer gloamin fell; We pairtit or ’twas day, an’ o’ a’ the nichts I min’ The brichtest in my mem’ry is that nicht wi’ Meenie Bell. I thocht her heart was troth-fast, but my image faded oot, An’ a stranger took the place in’t that she said she’d keep for me; For time gaed creeping on, an’ her hopes changed into doobt An’ doobt to caul’ mistrustin’, while I toilt ayont the sea. I’ve warselt wi’ the worl’ weel—I’ve run a wunnin’ race, But, aih! I’m of’en wushin’ when I maunder by mysel’, An’ a’ my weary strivin’s through lang lanesome years I trace, I had bidden puir i’ Middlebie and mairiet Meenie Bell. “A LOCKERBYE LYCKE.”[11] (MODERN ANTIQUE.) Ye’ve aiblins heard o’ Wullye Smyth, Ane hosteler wychte was he; Quha wonn’t at the sygne o’ the bonnie Black Bull, I’ the toon o’ Lockerbye. For Wullye, he drawyt the best o’ wyne, An’ brewyt the best o’ yelle, An’ mixyt the best o’ brandye punch, As neebour Lairds coulde telle. For aft the neebour Lairds conveent At Wullye’s to drynke theyre wyne, An’ hech! quhan they yokyt the brandye punch, They raysyt ane unco schyne. An’ ance, on the nychte o’ a huntan’ tryste, A blythesome companye There lychtyt doon i’ the Black Bull closse, Wychte Wullye’s wyne to pree. An’ there war Johnstones an’ Jardines routh Amang that rattlan’ crewe, Wi’ Herbert Herryes o’ fayre Ha’ Dykes,[12] An’ his buirdlye byllye Hughe; An’ gallaunte Wullye o’ Becks was there, Wi’ Wullye o’ Kyrtletoone:[13] Sae they byrl’t awaye at the reid, reid wyne, As the toasts gaed roun’ an’ roun’. Whyle up an’ spak wylde Wullye o’ Becks, An’ there fusionless toasts he curst, “We’ll toom a glasse tylle ilk man’s lasse, An’ Ha’ Dykes maun name his first!” Than up gatte the Laird o’ bonnie Ha’ Dykes— “Weel! rayther nor marre fayre myrthe, Here’s wynsome Jean o’ the Wylye Hole, The flower o’ Tundergayrthe; “An’ he quha wunna drynke fayre to thatte Maun quytte thysse companye; An’ he quha lychtlyes thatte sweet lasse, Maun answer it weel tylle me.”