Thou dear old home! no mountains capped with snow, No glorious oaks, no forest glades ye show; No minster hoar, no pile of classic fame, To lure the pilgrim by a world-wide name. One boast is thine--that boast beyond compare-- "Men that are true, and maidens fairly fair." Far have I roamed since first in early life I left that home to face the world's sore strife,-- From Arctic shores to India's golden strand, O'er many a country, many a classic land! How dear the Geddle and the Pinkie Braes, Where bloomed the buttercup! I knew the ways Where meadow-queens, perfuming all the air, Held gentle converse with sea-daisies fair; Where first the laverock and the blackbird sang; Where first the earliest, bonniest bluebells sprang;-- And, till the fight of life's last battle's fought, Of thee I'll dream as I have dreamt and thought. But to our tale--Whan Inglis reached the fair: "Ay! Lundie, man, hoo's a'? Na! Mains; _you_ there? Hoo's a' your folk?" "Oh! fine, man; hoo's your ain?" "Brawly--meat-hale and hearty; whaur' ye gain?" "Man, things are deein' gran'--horn, corn, an' woo-- Come roun' to Luckie's, an' we'll weet oor mou'." "Na, Lundie, man! I think I'll need to try An' haud by't _some_ the day." Quo Lundie, "Fye! You're grown John Tamson's man--_a' in a fizz_, Or else _your mither's milk is i' your nizz_." "Aweel! we's hae _ae_ stoup--nae mair the nicht; I promised to gang hame _for once_ a' richt-- Step ye your wa's, an' shortly I'll be roun'; I'm gain for tea an' troke doun thro' the toun, To speak for beef, a Sunday's frock to Mari'n, An' syne to Jamie Rhind's to buy some fairin'." His erran's deen, as fast as he cu'd spang, He hastes to Luckie's howf to join the thrang, An' Luckie smirks her kin'liest welcome ben, Prinkin' her feathers like a tappit hen. "Hooray! there's Inglis, sirs; ye see he's true;" An' doun sits Inglis 'mang the jovial crew. An' syne the crack gaed on--wha bocht o'er dear; What "Aikie Brae" gat for his muckle steer; Hoo auld Tam Gray has buiket young May Mason; An' "Bogie," wi' his quean maun stan' the Session; Hoo "Brosie Tam" is heckled by his wife; An' sic-like news aboot the country rife. Ilk gies his tale while at the drinkin' thrang, Till Lundie cries, "Come, Inglis, gie's a sang! We'll drink your health till ye get into tune,-- Nae moulie draps, noo,--clean-cap-oot a' roun'." "Hoot, Lundie, man! ye ken I hae the cauld,-- Nae han' at best, an' a' my sangs are auld; But, gin I maun--an' ye're sae singin'-fain-- I'll try ane on a forbear o' mine ain:-- Air--"_Muirland Willie._" "Watt o' the Hill cam' doun the brae, Trigly buskit frae tap to tae, Ridin' fu' crouse on his dappled grey-- Wattie wis fidgin' fain; 'An', aye,' quo' he, 'whate'er betide, Some canty bit lass I'll mak' my bride, For winter is comin'--my bed's o'er wide-- I'll lie nae mair my lane.'