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I'm back among the broomy braes,

Where byk't the foggy bee,
And where the hazel nuts did hang,

In clusters frae the tree.

How clear the stream gushed free the rock!

How red the berries hung! How happily from twig to twig,

The Watty-Wag-tail sprung!

How joyfully the lintie sang,

Upon the hazel tree! And I as happy a' the day,

As ony bird could be.

O, ever blessed be the bards!

Who bring such visions hither; Without such blessed visitants,

My weary heart would wither.

THE OLD EMIGRANT'S SONG TO HIS WIFE.

Near fifty years have fled awa',

And fleetly they did flee,
Since ye left hame and kindred a'

And cam awa wi' me.

O then ye were a strappin' quean,

The pride o' Locher glen,
And wha could match my bonnie Jean,

Nae staff ye needit then.

And proud was I my dawtie dear,

That day ye were my bride,
Nor hae I seen your marrow here,

Nor ony place beside.

Among the woods o' Canada,

We sought anither hame,
But here or there, or onywhere,

Your heart was aye the same.

And oft when battlin' wi* the heat,

Or weary winter's snow,
And when I thocht I would be beat,

And med I cam awa.

O ye were ne'er the ane to fret,

But kept my heart aboon, Wi' smiles sweet as when first we met,

By Locher's roaring lin.

Your raven locks are changed to snow,
The light has left your e'e,

Your tottering step within the hi
Brings waefu' thochts to me.

And changed am I, my dawtie dear,
And weerin' doun the brae,

And we maun soon be parted here,
That makes me dull and wae.

Yet we hae little cause to greet,
Our lives have not been vain,

If parting here is but to meet,
Where we'll be young again.

WE LIVE IN A RICKETY HOUSE.

We live in a rickety house,

In a dirty dismal street, Where the naked hide from day,

And thieves and drunkards meet.

And pious folks with their tracts,
When our dens they enter in,

They point to our shirtless backs,
As the fruits of beer and gin.

And they quote us texts to prove,
That our hearts are hard as stone,

And they feed us with the fact,
That the fault is all our own.

It will be long ere the poor,
Will learn their grog to shun,

While it's raiment food and fire,
And religion all in one.

I wonder some pious folks,

Can look us straight in the face,

For our ignorance and crime,
Are the Church's shame and disgrace.

We live in a rickety house,

In a dirty dismal street,
Where the naked hide from day,

And thieves and drunkards meet.

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