T' Hempgarth Broo's a cheersome pleàce when t' whins bloom full o' flooar

Green Hecklebank turns greener when it's watter't wid a shooar—

There's bonnie neuks about Beckside, Stocks-hill, an' Greystone Green

High Woker Broo gi'es sec a view as isn't offen

seen

It's glorious doon ont' Sandy-beds when t' sun's just gān to set

An' t' Clay-Dubs isn't far aslew when t' wedder isn't

wet;

[meet But nin was meàd o' purpose theer a bonnie lass to Like Billy Watson'lonnin' of a lownd summer neeght.

Yan likes to trail ow'r t' Sealand-fields an' wait for t' comin' tide,

Or slare whoar t' Green hes t' Ropery an't' Shore of ayder side

T' Weddriggs road's a lāl-used road, an' reeght for coortin toke

An' Lowca lonnin's reeght for them 'at like a langsome woke

Yan's reeght aneuf up t' Lime-road, or t' Waggon-way, or t' Ghyll,

An' reeght for ram'lin's Cunning-wood or Scattermascot hill.

Ther's many spots 'ats reeght aneuf, but nin o' ways so reeght

As Billy Watson' lonnin' of a lownd summer neeght.

Sec thowtes as thur com' thick lang sen to yan a lonterin' lad,

Wid varra lal to brag on but a sperrit niver sad, When he went strowling far an' free aboot his seaside heàm,

An' stamp't a mark upon his heart of ivery frind-like neàm;—

A mark 'at seems as time drees on to deepen mair an' mair

A mark 'at ola's breeghtens meàst i't' gloom o' comin' care;

But nowte upon his heart has left a mark 'at hods so breeght

As Billy Watson' lonnin' of a lownd summer neeght!

Oor young days may'd be wastet days, but dār their mem'ry's dear!

And what wad yan not part wid noo ageàn to hev them here?

Whativer trubles fash't us than, though nayder leet nor few,

They niver fash't us hafe so lang as less ans fash

us noo;

If want o' thowte brong bodderment, it pass't for want o' luck,

An' what cared we for Fortun's bats hooiver feurce she struck?

It mud be t' time o' life 'at meàd oor happiness

complete

I' Billy Watson' lonnin' of a lownd summer neeght!

THE LILY OF LOWESWATER.

The crimson Heath-blossom glows bright on the fell;
The Vi'let is sweet in the leaf-shaded dell;
And the white-mantled Hawthorn is fragrant and fair,
Enriching with perfume the dew-laden air.
But brighter by far than the red Heather bell,
And sweeter than Heartsease in woodland or dell,
And fairer than May-bloom in hedgerow or brake
The Lily that blooms all alone by a lake!

She's lovely and gentle, she's fair as the dawn,
She's graceful and gay as the fairy-limbed fawn,
She's kind as she's comely, she's free as she's fair,
And her spirit is pure as her beauty is rare.
Thrice happy will he be who gathers that flower,
And bears her away from her mountain-girt bower;
The care-clouds of life will look distant and dim
When the Lily of Loweswater blooms but for him.

'Mongst the flaxen-haired fair ones of Scotland I've dwelt,

At the shrine of their beauty entranced have I knelt, And I deemed that no flower could be fairer than

they,

While unseen and unknown was the theme of my lay.
Enchanted I've roved in the Emerald Isle,
With maidens bewitching in feature and smile,
And oft did their beauty my fancy enthrall,
But the Loweswater Lily surpasses them all!

THE FLOWER OF LAMPLUGH.

A floweret blooms in Lamplugh Dale,
Where Nature's richest green is spread-
Where all shews bright e'en through the veil
Of morning mist or mountain shade.
To match that bud all search were vain
On northern heath-in southern vale;
Nor lonely glen nor peopled plain

Holds aught like her of Lamplugh Dale.

O beauteous is the new blown Rose!—
The Argent Lily pure and sweet;
But purest, fairest, either shews

In her where Rose and Lily meet;
For o'er her cheek and o'er her brow
The native hues of both prevail;
Their blended sweets a magic throw
Round her who blooms in Lamplugh Dale.

The Vi'let yields, when wet with dew,
And first it meets the morning beam,
A humid sparkling tinged with blue,
A soft, but lustrous, azure gleam;
But oh! one gleam from her blue eyes
Makes e'en the lights above look pale,
Whilst earthly lustre vainly vies

With her dear glance in Lamplugh Dale.

The Tulip rears its stately head

And greets the sun with graceful pride; The Primrose in it's woodland bed

It's lowly beauty seeks to hide. And beauty, dignity, and grace

With meekness joined in her we hail; Whate'er in fairest flowers we trace Adorns the Pride of Lamplugh Dale.

MEENIE BELL.

[Here first printed.]

Wull ye meet me, Meenie Bell? Wull ye tryste yince mair wi' me?

Where the sauchs half hide the burnie as it wimples on its way?

When the sinking sun comes glenting through the feathery birken tree,

Till ye'd trow a thousand fairy fires wer' flichtering on the brae.

Wull ye meet me, Meenie Bell? Wull ye say ye'll meet me there?

An' come afore the gloaming fa's to hear what I've to tell?

For I'm gaun away the morn, an' I'll weary lang

an' sair

'Or I see ye're bonnie face again-sae meet me, Meenie Bell!