"I dreamt that I rode in a chariot, A flunkie ahint me in green; While Geordie cried out he was harriet, An' the saut tear was blindin' his een. But though 'gainst my spendin' he swear aye, I'll hae frae him what ser's my turn; Let him slip awa' whan he grows wearie; Shame fa' me, gin lang I wad mourn!" But Geordie, while Meg was haranguin', Was cloutin' his breeks i' the bauks; An' whan a' his failin's she brang in, His strang hazel pikestaff he taks, Designin' to rax her a lounder, He chanced on the lather to shift, An' down frae the bauks, flat 's a flounder, Flew like a shot starn frae the lift! MY DEAR LITTLE LASSIE. My dear little lassie, why, what 's a' the matter? My heart it gangs pittypat--winna lie still; I 've waited, and waited, an' a' to grow better, Yet, lassie, believe me, I 'm aye growin' ill! My head 's turn'd quite dizzy, an' aft, when I 'm speakin', I sigh, an' am breathless, and fearfu' to speak; I gaze aye for something I fain would be seekin', Yet, lassie, I kenna weel what I would seek. Thy praise, bonnie lassie, I ever could hear of, And yet, when to ruse ye the neebour lads try-- Though it 's a' true they tell ye--yet never sae far off I could see 'em ilk ane, an' I canna tell why. When we tedded the hayfield, I raked ilka rig o't, And never grew weary the lang simmer day; The rucks that ye wrought at were easiest biggit, And I fand sweeter scented around ye the hay. In har'st, whan the kirn-supper joys mak us cheerie, 'Mang the lave o' the lasses I preed yer sweet mou'; Dear save us! how queer I felt whan I cam' near ye-- My breast thrill'd in rapture, I couldna tell how. When we dance at the gloamin', it 's you I aye pitch on; And gin ye gang by me, how dowie I be! There 's something, dear lassie, about ye bewitching, That tells me my happiness centres in thee. JAMES MONTGOMERY.