[Footnote 3:  Captain James Montgomerie, Master of St. James’
     Lodge, Tarbolton, to which the author has the honour to
     belong.—­R.B.]

     [Footnote 4:  Auchinleck.—­R.B.]

     [Footnote 5:  Ballochmyle.]

     [Footnote 6:  Mauchline.]

     [Footnote 7:  Miss Wilhelmina Alexander.]

     [Footnote 8:  Cumnock.—­R.B.]

I marked busy, bustling Trade, In fervid flame, Beneath a Patroness’ aid, of noble name.

     Wild, countless hills I could survey,
     And countless flocks as wild as they;
     But other scenes did charms display,
     That better please,
     Where polish’d manners dwell with Gray,
     In rural ease.^9

     Where Cessnock pours with gurgling sound;^10
     And Irwine, marking out the bound,
     Enamour’d of the scenes around,
     Slow runs his race,
     A name I doubly honour’d found,^11
     With knightly grace.

     Brydon’s brave ward,^12 I saw him stand,
     Fame humbly offering her hand,
     And near, his kinsman’s rustic band,^13
     With one accord,
     Lamenting their late blessed land
     Must change its lord.

     The owner of a pleasant spot,
     Near and sandy wilds, I last did note;^14
     A heart too warm, a pulse too hot
     At times, o’erran: 
     But large in ev’ry feature wrote,
     Appear’d the Man.

     The Rantin’ Dog, The Daddie O’t

     Tune—­“Whare’ll our guidman lie.”

     O wha my babie-clouts will buy? 
     O wha will tent me when I cry? 
     Wha will kiss me where I lie? 
     The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.

     [Footnote 9:  Mr. Farquhar Gray.—­R.B.]

     [Footnote 10:  Auchinskieth.—­R.B.]

     [Footnote 11:  Caprington.—­R.B.]

     [Footnote 12:  Colonel Fullerton.—­R.B.]

     [Footnote 13:  Dr. Fullerton.—­R.B.]

     [Footnote 14:  Orangefield.—­R.B.]

     O wha will own he did the faut? 
     O wha will buy the groanin maut? 
     O wha will tell me how to ca’t? 
     The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.

     When I mount the creepie-chair,
     Wha will sit beside me there? 
     Gie me Rob, I’ll seek nae mair,
     The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.

     Wha will crack to me my lane? 
     Wha will mak me fidgin’ fain? 
     Wha will kiss me o’er again? 
     The rantin’ dog, the daddie o’t.

     Here’s His Health In Water

     Tune—­“The Job of Journey-work.”

     Altho’ my back be at the wa’,
     And tho’ he be the fautor;
     Altho’ my back be at the wa’,
     Yet, here’s his health in water. 
     O wae gae by his wanton sides,
     Sae brawlie’s he could flatter;
     Till for his sake I’m slighted sair,