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Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the schule-weans laughin' said,

We cleek'd thegither hame? And mind ye o' the Saturdays

(The schule then skail't at noon), When we ran aff to speel the braesThe broomy braes o' June?

Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin' dinsome toun,

To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its water croon ?
The simmer leaves hung ower our
heads,

The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin' o' the wud
The throssil whusslit sweet.

The throssil whusslit in the wud,
The burn sung to the trees,
And we, with Nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;

And on the knowe abune the burn
For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sindered young,
I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I dee,

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed

O' bygane days and me!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

AULD LANG SYNE.

SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu't the gowans fine;

But we've wandered mony a weary foot,

Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,
Frae mornin' sun till dine;

But seas between us braid hae roared,

Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie's a hand o' thine;
And we'll take a right guid willie-
waught,

For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup of kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!

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SONG FROM JASON.

I KNOW a little garden close
Set thick with lily and red rose,
Where I would wander if I might
From dewy dawn to dewy night,
And have one with me wandering.

And though within it no birds sing, And though no pillared house is there, And though the apple-boughs are bare Of fruit and blossom, would to God Her feet upon the green grass trod, And I beheld them as before.

There comes a murmur from the shore,

And in the place two fair streams are, Drawn from the purple hills afar, Drawn down unto the restless sea; The hills whose flowers ne'er fed the bee,

The shore no ship has ever seen, Still beaten by the billows green, Whose murmur comes unceasingly Unto the place for which I cry.

For which I cry both day and night, For which I let slip all delight, That maketh me both deaf and blind, Careless to win, unskilled to find, And quick to lose what all men seek.

Yet tottering as I am and weak, Still have I left a little breath To seek within the jaws of death An entrance to that happy place, To seek the unforgotten face Once seen, once kissed, once reft from me

Anigh the murmuring of the sea. WILLIAM MORRIS.

OF A' THE AIRTS.

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw
I dearly like the west;
For there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo'e best.

There wild woods grow, and rivers

row,

Wi' mony a hill between; Baith day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers Sae lovely fresh and fair,

I hear her voice in ilka bird Wi' music charm the air:

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