When Will-o'-the-wisp cud be seen in the swamp,
But nah are the days o' cheating fer riches,
An' a poor honest man is classed wi' a scamp.
Yes, them wur the days at mi mind worrant weary;
O them wur the days aw knew no despair;
O give me the time o' the boggard an' fairy,
Wi' t' furst Pair o' Briches at ivver aw ware.

Ah! them wur the days aw sall allus remember,
Sud aw just as owd as Mathusalah last;
Them wur mi March days, but nah it's September:
Ne'er to return again--them days are past.
But a time aw remember aboon onny other,
Aw kneeled o' mi knees an' sed the Lord's Prayer;
Aw sed "God bless mi father, an' God bless mi mother,"
It furst Pair o' Briches at ivver aw ware.

O Welcome, Lovely Summer.

O welcome, lovely summer,
Wi' thi golden days so long,
When the throstle and the blackbird
Do charm us wi' ther song;
When the lark in early morning
Takes his aerial flight;
An' the humming bat an' buzzard
Frolic in the night.

O! welcome, lovely summer,
With her rainbow's lovely form;
Her thunner an' her leetnin',
An' her grandeur in the storm:
With her sunshine an' her shower,
An' her whirlin' of the dust,
An' the maiden with her flagon,
To sleck the mower's thirst.

O! welcome, lovely summer,
When the woods wi' music ring,
An' the bees so heavy laden,
To their hives their treasures bring:
When we seek some shady bower,
Or some lovely little dell,
Or, bivock in the sunshine,
Besides some cooling well.

O! welcome, lovely summer,
With her roses in full bloom;
When the cowslaps an' the laalek
Deck the cottage home;
When the cherry an' the berry
Give a grandeur to the charm;
And the clover and the haycock
Scent the little farm.

O! welcome, lovely summer,
Wi' the partridge on the wing;
When the tewit an' the moorgam,
Up fra the heather spring,
From the crowber an' the billber,
An' the bracken an' the whin;
As from the noisy tadpole,
We hear the crackin' din.
O! welcome, lovely summer.

Burns's Centenary.

Go bring that tuther whisky in,
An' put no watter to it;
Fur I mun drink a bumper off,
To Scotland's darlin' poet.

It's just one hunderd year to-day,
This Jenewarry morn,
Sin' in a lowly cot i' Kyle,
A rustic bard wur born.

He kittled up his muirland harp,
To ivvery rustic scene;
An' sung the ways o' honest men,
His Davey an' his Jean.

There wur ni