Yes! dear to me is Lockerbie, its houses wee an’ big, Its “Up the gate,” its “Doon the gate,” its “Cross,” an’ “Through the brig,” Its closes mirk,[15] its stumpy kirk, its fu’ an’ thrang kirkyard Where caul’ an’ deep some dreamless sleep I wish dour death had spared. A hame to me was Lockerbie when half its roofs were theek, An’ jeests, an’ jaums, an’ gapin’ lums, a’ black-japann’t wi’ reek; Whan monie were the middens nerr the whunstane-causey’t street; But cosie aye its hearthstanes lay afore the stranger’s feet. Than Lockerbie had sichts to see at race times an’ at fairs, Wi’ Jocks an’ Jeans, strang chiel’s an’ queans, i’ scores an’ scores o’ pairs; An’ gledging oot the roads aboot or the fair had weel begun, We’d watch the braw, braw lasses a’ pu’ on their hose an’ shune. I wadna’ gie aul’ Lockerbie for ony toon I ken, For kindly were the kimmers there, an’ kindly too the men,— Atweel the _bouk_ were kindly folk, an’ some were gey an’ queer, An’ whilk remain an’ whilk are gane I downa bide to spier. My thochts oft flee to Lockerbie at midnicht’s waukrife hour, An’ thickly flock aul’ mem’ries back wi’ heart up-heesing power, An’ schulemates dear, an’ sweethearts fair, an’ frien’s o’ days lang fled, I’ shadowy train appear again like phantoms roun’ my bed. There was gude aul’ Jeanie Kennedy, an’ Jimmie Rule, the blin’, Whase fiddle’s squeal we liket weel though’t had nae tune but yin, Lizzie Dobie, Winnie Stobie, Nickie Scott an’ puir Jean Hine, An’ aul’ John Kerr, a lamiter, a pawkie frien’ o’mine. Josie Weepers, Geordie Robison, Tam Bell, an’ Cripple Peg, An’ the puir man nocknamed “Providence,” whae whiles gaed oot to beg. The Cameronian merchants twae, the wee yin an’ the lang, An’ Sawney Beck, wi’s aul’ white heck that scarce a fit could gang. There was roup-crier Awnro’ Jimmison, whae hirplet in his walk, An’ Wullie Smith, a carle o’ pith whae squeekit in his talk, An’ wi’ a pow maist like a lowe the singin’ nailer chiel, An’ droothy twuns, twae burniewun’s, Bob Johnston an’ Jock Steel. Wullie Corrie, Sandy Moray, than a licht amang the Whigs, An’ hairy-faced Bill Vairy, wi’ his wife gaun sellin’ pigs, Funny-speakin’ Peggy Meekin wi’ the meetin’ nose an’ chin, An’ Robie Rule,[16] aul’ noisy tule, whase drum made sic a din. There was winkin’ Sandy Linton, makin’ peeries roun’ an’ fine (Within his doors hoo monie hours o’ merriment I min’), The pistol-fittit cooper carle whase name was aye a myth, An’ the twae whase names were bye-words, Wullie White an’ Michael Smith. Wi’ mony mae than I may say, but yin I’d like to name (Gin I forget to him my debt, I’ll hide my heid for shame,) Wi’ great respec’, the maister stric’, an’ danglin’ frae his claws, His badge o’ rule i’ the thrang aul’ schule, the weel-worn cutty tawse.