relieved by a wealth of trailing rosebuds and its modest garden patch. Here a sturdily independent pair, father and daughter, planted their lodge in the wilderness. How they did it I shall leave them to tell in the following verses, which I took down from the lips of the sturdy dame, preserving, as faithfully as I could, the pronunciation. Known to the country-side as Cissy Wood, she still survives, a septuagenarian, the brave and indomitable mistress of her own humble fortunes. The reader will observe that, though there is little of the archaic in the language, his ear will recognise in it a genuine example of the tones of the Mearns.
THE BIGGIN O'T.
Tune—"The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow."
There wuz an' auld man tuke a bit o' yon hull,
An' he wud gae try the biggin o't.
He hidna a hooss 'at he cud bide intill
An' his first wark wud be the biggin o't.
He biggit the wa's wi' gweed clay an' steen;
Wi' heather he happit the riggin o't:
A cantier dwallin' wuz ne'er to be seen,
An' sorra a bit cam by thiggin o't.
He's plantit some tatties to full his auld wime,
An' sawn some neeps for the stainshin o't,
Wi' ingens an' carrots to gar them taste fine,
An' mak him mair fit for the trinchin o't.
He's sawn some corn his bannocks to be;
He delv't it an' dung't it, for eident wuz he;
The aul' carl kent brawly foo awbody wud see,
There wad naething be made by the flinchin o't.
Fin the day'd turned dreary, an' the rain doon did fa',
O! then he gaed in to the planin o't,
To win to's auld pooch a shillinie or twa,
As there's neebody cares aboot len'in o't.
It's seldom the rich man hes siller to spare,
An' ere the poor get it they mun trachle sair,
Altho' that the winnin' breeds sorrow an' care,
Ee'll get plenty to help wi' the spen'in' o't.
