WHO'S AT MY WINDOW. O, who's at my window, now, now? And, worse, I am eerie, And my mother is watching below, below, O go from my window, go, go; 0 go from my window, love, do: Who loves me in the night Will love me in the light; So come in the sunshine, and woo, and woo, So come in the sunshine and woo. Gin ye be a true love of mine, O wave thy white hand for a sign; I've come ten miles and mair For a word of that sweet tongue o' thine, o' thine, And a glance o' thy dark eye divine. Know ye what a lover maun dree? O come to thy window and see: Thou fire, in thy flashing, Thou wind, shaking turret and tree, and tree O speak to my fair one for me! O come to my chamber, love, do ; The way all with rushes I'll strew A kind heart shall warm thee, A sweet tongue shall charm thee; O come to my chamber, love, now, love, now, No one, I hope, will suppose that this song is written to supply the place of the old lyric with the same name which Wedderburn sought to supplant. Innumerable verses of this measure are scattered over the south of Scotland; but few of them are worth collecting for their poetry. There's mirth in the barn and the ha', the ha', There's quaffing and laughing, And dancing and daffing; And our young bride's daftest of a', of a', And our young bride's daftest of a'. These lines have no antique sound-but they contain a lively image of bridal festivity and freedom. LANGSYNE. When silent time, wi' lightly foot, I sought my lang lost hame again, Wha kens, if the dear friends I left Or, if I e'er again shall see As I came by my father's tow'rs, Which gars me think the joys at hand Are naething to langsyne. These ivy'd towers now met my e'e, Where minstrels us'd to blaw; Nae friend came forth wi' open arms- And grat to see the lad come back He bore about langsyne. I ran thro' every weel kenn'd room, In hopes to meet friends there; I steek'd the door and sobb'd aloud Of all the "Langsynes" which have appeared since the famous "Langsyne" of Burns, this seems by far the most beautiful. I have ventured, however, to cut away the concluding verse, which weakened the impression of the overpowering image presented in the fourth. I am sorry I cannot name the author. TIBBIE RODAN. The gallant lads of Gallowa, The lads frae far Corehead to Hoddom, The braksha lairds of Moffatt water, I mind her weel in plaiden gown, Before she heir'd her uncle's coffer; The gleds might howk'd out her gray een, Graithing sewed with gowd and siller; And half the country's trysting till her. I wadna gie twa rosie lips, With breath like mixed milk and honey, I wadna gie the haffet locks, With scented dew all richly drappin, Of this scion from the universal favourite, Tibbie Fowler, some of the slips may be worth preserving: Sour plums are gude wi' sugar baked Slaes are sweet wi' kames o' hinnie; The bowltest carlin i' the land, Gowd can make her straught an' bonnie. A ruder and earlier copy was printed in Cromek's volume, and many variations might be given, but they would be more curious than excellent. |