The farmers’ wives o’ Annandale Shew fine at kirk an’ fair; But see them at their ain firesides— They shine the brichtest there. Wi’ gracious smiles an’ winsome words The stranger guest they hail;— They’re angels in a hamely sphere— The wives o’ Annandale! The farmers’ wives o’ Annandale! They strive frae morn till nicht, Without, within, through but an’ ben, To hand a’ rowin’ richt; To keep contentit their gudemen, Their bairnies feal an’ hale, Till baith rise up an’ ca’ them blest— The wives o’ Annandale. The chiel’ that hes in Annandale A weel-waled farm an’ wife, Has drawn twae glorious prizes frae The lucky-bag o’ life. An’ may they prosper, stock an’ store, In ever hichtinin’ scale, Whae treasure in their hames an’ hearts The wives o’ Annandale. A REMINISCENCE OF CORRIE. Of a’ the streams o’ Annandale Wi’ names embalm’t i’ sang or story, Gin Mylke, for beauty, beer the bell, I think I’d gi’e the mell to Corrie. It’s “up by Corrie—doon by Dryfe,” (Gin a coortin’ ye wad toddle) “That’s the gate to seek a wife”— (Hoo daft aul’ rhymes bide in yin’s noddle!) But sud ye take ye’re way by Corrie, Till ye come gey near to Borelan’, Ye’ll aye see muir an’ bent afore ye— Scarce ochte a’ roon’ but bent an’ muirlan’. “There’s Corrie Lea an’ Corrie Law— Corrie Mains—an’ mowdies hork” there— “Corrie Hill an’ Corrie Ha’— Corrie Common, Corrie Kirk” there. But Corrie Kirk’s nae kirk ava— Corrie Hill’s nae hill to roam on— Snell’s the blast on Corrie Law— Scant the gerse on Corrie Common. They tell me Corrie’s alter’t now; It’s drain’t, they say, an’ fenced an’ plantit; But as I min’ ’t, lang syne, I trow, Drain, fence, an’ biel war sairly wantit. Than what is’t gars me ply my pen I’ scribblin’ doon this rhymin’ clatter? An’ what is’t mak’s me aye sae fain To hear or read o’ Corrie water? Atweel it is a simple thing As ever dreamer wastit time on; Scarce worth the while to say or sing— For this is what I’m boun’ to rhyme on:— The mem’ry o’ a denty quean, I couldna draw a plain-spak’ word frae; Scarce heard ava—no fairly seen— An’ never efter seen or heard frae. A’ day we’d stey’t at Corrie Common, Drinkin’, thrawin’ quoits, an’ jeerin’; An’ doon to Stidriggs, or the gloamin’, Five wil’ chiel’s we gaed careerin’. (Jock Porteous, An’ro Hen’erson, Wull Fergyson, me, Wullie Beaty. Twae, like mysel’, may yet leeve on— The ither twae—Aih me, the pity!) But passin’ by a wee cot-house, Wi’ riggin’ laigh, an’ gable suety, Yin cries oot sae baul’ an’ croose, “Come, boys, c’ way in, an’ licht the cutty!”