Thomas Capells, David Aitken, Walter Watson, John Dymock, David Girdwood, James Brown, Adam Tennant, Andrew Anderson, William Gibson, &c., but alas! alas! with one or two exceptions, they are all now beneath the sod, and the meetings are closed for ever.

LANARK MILLS.

ADIEU! romantic banks of Clyde
Where oft I've spent the joyful day;
Now weary wandering on thy side
I hear the plaintive, joyless lay.
In other lands I'm doomed to rove-

The thought with grief my bosom fills;
Why am I forced to leave my love

And wander far from Lanark Mills?

Can I forget the ecstatic hours,

When ('scaped the village evening din)
I met my lass 'midst Braxfield's bowers,
Or near the falls of Corra Linn!
While close I clasped her to my breast
(The idea still my bosom fills!)
I thought myself completely blest
By all the lads of Lanark Mills.

Deceitful, dear, delusive dream,
Thou'rt fled-alas! I know not where;
And vanished is each blissful gleam,
And left behind a load of care.
Adieu! dear winding banks of Clyde,
A long farewell, ye rising hills;
No more I'll wander on your side,
Though still my heart's at Lanark Mills.

While Tintoc stands the pride of hills,
While Clyde's dark stream rolls to the sea,
So long, my dear loved Lanark Mills,

May Heaven's best blessing smile on thee.

THE WEE, WEE GERMAN LAIRDIE.

A last adieu! my Mary, dear,

The briny tear my eye distils;
While reason's powers continue clear,
I'll think of thee and Lanark Mills.

STUART LEWIS.

97

Stuart Lewis was the son of an Innkeeper at Ecclefechan; his father died bankrupt when he was quite young. He learned the tailor trade and commenced business at Chester, but was unfortunate. He set up at Ecclefechan, where he married. He tried the hawking trade, then enlisted into the Hopeton Fencibles. This regiment being disbanded, he was entrusted by a merchant with the sale of goods, but being robbed, like the "Wee Wifeckie," when under the influence of the "Drappikie, this employment came to an end. He next became an umbrella maker in Manchester, then tried various occupations, but was unfortunate in them all. He finally tried, what Burns says, in one of his epistles to a friend, is "The last o't, the warst o't, is only but to beg !" In his wanderings he was accompanied by his wife, who, although a severe sufferer on account of his follies, always retained for him the most devoted attachment. On her death in Edinburgh, in 1817, he became almost insane, roamed wildly through the country, seldom remaining more than one night in the same place. Falling accidentally into the Nith, which induced a fever, he died at Ruthwell in 1818. His is a very sad history, and is another melancholy instance of the evil effects of strong drink.

THE WEE, WEE GERMAN LAIRDIE.

Он, wha the deil have we got for a king,
But a wee, wee German Lairdie!

An' when we gaed for to fetch him hame,
He was delvin his kail yardie;

Sheuchan kail and layin' leeks,
But the hose, and but, the breeks,
Up his beggar duds he cleeks-

The wee, wee German Lairdie.

And he's set down in oor Gudeman's chair,
The wee, wee German Lairdie!

And he's brought fouth o' foreign trash,
And dibbled them in his yardie;

G

He's pu'd the rose o' English loons,
And brak the harp o' Irish clowns,
But oor Scots thistle will jag his thumbs-
This wee, wee German Lairdie.

Come up amang the Hieland hills,
Thou wee, wee German Lairdie,
And see how Charlie's lang-kail thrive,
They dibbled in our yardie;
And if a stock ye daur to pu',
Or haud the yokin' o' the plough,
We'll break your sceptre owre your mou',
Thou wee bit German Lairdie!

Our hills are high, our glens are steep,
No fittin' for a yardie,

And our Norlan thristles winna pu,
Thou wee, wee German Lairdie !
And we've the trenchin' blades o' wear,
Wad rob ye o' your German gear,
And pass ye neath the claymore's shear,
Wee feckless German Lairdie !

He'll ride nae mair on ait-straw sunks,
For gawen his German hurdies;
But he sits on our gude king's throne,
Amang the English lordies.

Auld Scotland, thou'rt owre cauld a hole,
For nursin' siccan vermin;

But the very dogs in England's court,
They bark and yowl in German !

ANON.

The author of this merciless satire is unknown; but, according to tradition, it was a great favourite at Carnwath House after the accession of George I. to the British throne. George Lockhart, the Laird of Carnwath, was a decided Jacobite ; in 1715 he raised a troop of horse for the service of the Pretender, was imprisoned for a considerable time in Edinburgh Castle on suspicion, a measure which in all probability saved both his head and his estate. He had a groom, who was an excellent singer, who frequently made the stable ring with the "Wee, wee German Lairdie." It is not unlikely that Lockhart himself was the author; his works show that he was a writer of no mean power, both in poetry and prose.

THE FLOWER OF ABBEY GREEN.

THE FLOWER OF ABBEY GREEN.

"TIS sweet when owre Glendevon's towers,
The sun pours forth his golden rays;
'Tis sweet in Birkwood's bonnie bowers,
To hear the linnet's thrilling lays;
'Tis sweet to wander owre the braes,
O'erhanging Nethan's winding stream,
For there the Queen of Beauty strays-
The lovely Queen of Abbey Green.

Sweet is the rose upon the brier,

And sweet the blossom on the thorn, And sweet the laverock's sang so clear, Far up amang the cluds at morn; And to the exile sad, forlorn,

Sweet hame is ever dear, I ween; But sweeter, dearer far to me,

'S the lovely Flower of Abbey Green.

Then tell nae me of beauties rare,
Beneath yon distant eastern skies,
Wi' her they never can compare,
They'd pale beneath her sparkling eyes;
For such a flower did never rise,

Since Eve in Paradise was Queen!
A' nature's sweets she does comprise-
The lovely Flower of Abbey Green.

Her form is of the finest mould,
Beauty sits throned upon

I wadna gie a smile frae her

her brow;

For a' that monarchs can bestow. Had I the wealth of Mexico,

And all the power of Albion's Queen,

I'd part with all, without one throe,
For the lovely Flower of Abbey Green.

W. G.

99

BONNIE ANNIE GRAY.

O BONNIE Annie Gray, I must bid you now adieu !
My steed stands waiting on the mead, to bear me far from you;
But where I stray, by night or day, I will remember still
The lovely rose I left behind at Castle Somerville.

O bonnie Annie Gray, the bugle sounds to arms,

And I maun go to meet the foe, and share in war's alarms; But midst the strife of battle wild, and trumpets sounding shrill,

I'll ne'er forget the lovely Rose of Castle Somerville.

I have loved thee, Annie Gray, with a pure and fervent love,
And neither time nor distance can my passion e'er remove.
Oh! every danger I could meet, and combat every ill,
Tae shield frae harm the lovely Rose of Castle Somerville.

It may be, Annie Gray, that a soldier's death I'll die
Upon the field of battle red, beneath an Indian sky;
But even then, I'll love thee, Anne, for death can never chill
The love I have for my sweet Rose of Castle Somerville.

O bonnie Annie Gray, though I leave auld Scotland's isle, I'll ne'er forget that jewelled eye, that sweet bewitching smile, That silver voice, so sweet and clear, which my heart's core can thrill;

I'll see and hear, though far away, from Castle Somerville.

O bonnie Annie Gray, let me kiss away that tear,
Which like a gem, lies on that cheek so lovely and so clear,
For something whispers in my ear that soon return I will!
And my sweet rose will be my bride, at Castle Somerville!

W. G.

Castle Somerville was an old residence of the Somerville family, in the town of Carnwath. The Free Church Manse is built upon a part of the property, and is now Castle Somerville. The old buildings were taken down in the present century.