Hech, aye! but things are greatly changed, Since doon the burns we ran thegither, An' fished frae mornin' dawn till e'en Or wandered 'mang the bloomin' heather. Ye're noo awa' across the sea, Wi' honours added tae yer name, While I, contented wi' my lot, Wi' wife an' weans bide nearer hame. O' winsome lassies that we kent, The maist o' them are mairit noo; Some are weel aff, an' some are puir, An' fin' it hard tae struggle thro'; Some lads like you hae wandered forth In foreign climes tae win their breid; Some wives an' carles that we knew Are noo at rest amang the deid. The grand auld hills are jist the same, Nae different in shape or form, Impervious tae the wear o' time, Unshaken by the beatin' storm. The muir-cock still fu' crousely craws, The linty sings upon the hill, The whaup's wild cry frae aff the moor Still moves me wi' a nameless thrill. Auld freen', I'll gledly mak' a tryst, For I'm aye fain tae meet wi' thee, As aft I've dune in days gane by Afore ye gaed sae far frae me. An' though I'm weirin' on in life An' no as yaul as I was then, We'll meet an' spen' the lee-lang day An' taste oor boyhood's joys again. Though in this life we aye maun pairt, Still hauds the paction we hae made. A freenship such as we enjoy We are agreed can never fade; An' when we close oor een in daith, An' intae dust oor frames decay, 'Tis of the spirit an' goes on Tae glory in an endless day. A NOTE O' THANKS. Dear freen, I houp this wee bit note Will reach its destination. In it ye'll find a word o' thanks For your appreciation Of lines upon the dear auld freen. Whose death has caused oor sorrow. But tho' the cluds hang dark to-day, The sun will shine to-morrow On chastened hearts that can rejoice Tae see the sufferer free, Tho' noo we canna' see the licht For grief has blin't the e'e. I hae nae skill in poetry, An' little ken o' grammar: In makin' o' ma ain bit rhymes I aften mak' a stammer. Sae ye may ken I'm unco pleased Tae hear ma piece was splendid, An' tho' I ken it had a faut I hadna' wit tae mend it. Sae let the creetics creeticise: When tired, they will forbear. If tae yer hert it did appeal, For them I dinna care. LEADHILLS. Birthplace of Symington and Ramsay! Whose names in thee are household words, Who honour gained in peaceful times. With steam and pencil, not with swords. Leadhills! what mem'ries cling around thee Of boyhood's day and riper years, Of social hours I spent with friends, Whose loss I mourned with bitter tears. Young friends have gone to dangers distant, And e'en to death, if so He wills; Their hearts are thine--engraven on them The image of their home, Leadhills.