I saw what gar’t my heart stan’ still, An’ set my verra flesh a’ creepin’, While doon my limbs the sweit draps chill, Like thowin’ snaw gaed dreepin’, dreepin’. I’ place o’ braw black silken goon— A bed-goon an’ a drogget coatie; I’ place o’ ringlets clusterin’ doon— A reekit mutch an’ chaft-locks tawtie; I’ place o’ saft lid-droopin’ e’en— Ae wulcat spark—a winkin’ won’er; I’ place o’ lips wi’ bliss atween— Twae gums wad gar a corby scunner; I’ place o’ broo an’ throat o’ sna’ An’ bosom fraucht wi’ sweet emotion— A face an’ figur’ ’passin’ a’ The gruesomeness o’ earth or ocean. An’ sic a tongue—Gude guide a’ weel!— She lows’t on me—sic fearfu’ flytin’!— I’ sic a voice—half craik, half squeel— Wi’ jeers an’ jibes braid, bitter bitin’. “To gie yin fash,” Rob Burns declared, “An aul’ wife’s tongue’s a feckless matter;” But honest Robin never heard That aul’ wife’s tongue i’ Corrie water. An’ whan she made a calmer souch, An’ stey’t a wee her skirlin’ ang-er, I heard, far ben, a sweet wee lauch, An’ dowdna thole the ordeal lang-er. I flang the carlin fierce aside, An’ left her up hersel’ to gether; An’, frae her cot, wi’ wrathfu’ stride, I fled to face the midnicht w’ather. An’ back I took my darksome way, By gerse-grown dykes an’ resh-rouch heid rigs; By spretty knowe an’ staney brae, An’, sair forfowch’en, wan to Stidriggs, Where, hingin’ up the borrow’t plaid, An’ owre my queer mischanter smilin’, I took my share o’ ae box-bed, But couldna sleep for thochte’s beguilin’. For whae could yon sweet lassie be That lauch’t at that aul’ carlin’ scaul’in’? ’Twas plain, I’ve said afore, to see That cot-hoose couldna be her dwallin’. How cam’ she to be wonnin’ there I’ that aul’ muirlan’ clay-wa’t biggin? How could a gem sae bricht an’ rare Be treasur’t ’neath its crazy riggin’? It’s mair nor therty year sin syne— That maiden’s aiblins now a grannie— But ’mang the folk I like to min’, I offen see her, skeich an’ bonnie. An’ whiles I’ve thochte that bed she gi’en, An’ keep’t, her word to be sweet-heartit, Like ither sweethearts, she’d ha’e been Frae mem’ry’s hauld lang, lang depairtit. For weel I wat, fair favours won Ha’e frae men’s minds aye suener slippit Nor ochte we’ve set oor hearts upon, An’ triet to grip—but fail’t to grip it. REMINISCENCES OF LOCKERBIE. Aul’ Lockerbie! aul’ Lockerbie! the dear wee toon to me! Where, never fleyed, a boy I played, an’ roved a younker free, Wi’ heart sae licht that life was bricht as never mair it shall, For never mair I’ll ramble where I drank o’ Bessie’s wal’.[14]