I've fished ye when the days were short, I've fished ye when the days were lang (An' whiles wee Davy was my mate, An' whiles it was his brither Tam). Frae Mossburn doon by Whitchincleuch, An' by the path that maks Glenym Tae whaur yer waters when in spate Gang roarin' owre the Horseman Linn; An' then a wee bit farer on (I min' we got a hearty lauch When silly Rab fell in the burn) Whaur waters flow frae dark Glenclauch. Those happy days are langsyne gane An' I am weirin' on in life; My pleasure's a' in lookin' back: There's naething noo but care and strife. When Nature fails an' I maun bend An' fade jist like a witherin' tree, Beside ye, gin I hae my wish, I fain will lay me doon an' dee. THE HEIGHTS OF GLENDYNE. On a fair summer morn when the sun did adorn The top of Glengaber, Glencrieve, and Glenglass, I wandered away to the hill and the brae, At the footstool of Nature a few hours to pass. As I climbed the steep hill by the pure little rill That trills its sweet song 'mid the heather and thyme My memory swept back on its well-beaten track To the days of my boyhood and friends of langsyne. From the head of Glendyne I kept a straight line As far as the rock where the fox makes his den, Where the hill of the bloody bell stands like a sentinel Guarding the pass to the bonnie Monk's Glen. Nowhere I have been is such wild beauty seen As that from the spot where I then took my stand; It must stir the cold heart, inspiration impart, These marvellous works of the Almighty hand. Where is the pen 'mongst the learned of men That could to the mind's eye its beauties array? Where is the hand the brush could command Its splendours so solemn and wild to pourtray? Freedom from strife and the cares of this life I find in this solitude has its abode; The soul it is free as the soul ought to be To commune with Nature and worship its God. A WADDIN' IN THE GLEN. _50 YEARS AGO._ _Song._ _Tune: "A Hundred Pipers."_ Stranger--What's a' the steer in the village the nicht, An' what has gaen wrang wi' the folk? Villager--There's naething gane wrang, an' a' thing is richt; It's Meg gettin' mairit tae Jock. Ye see, when a waddin' taks place in the glen It is a momentous occasion, For a guid week afore't the hale o' the crack Is wha's bid tae the jollification. CHORUS. Then haste ye awa' tae the waddin' the nicht! Dinna miss it whate'er may befa'! Ye'll never forget it as lang as ye leeve, The lassies are buskit sae braw.