THE SKYLARK.
Lae-rockie—lae-rockie-lee,
Up i' the lift sae hie!
You soar frae the grun', up there to the sun,
An' hing like a mote i' my e'e,
While frae your free throat, on wastlin winds float,
The charms o' your ain melodie.
You fondly look doon whaur your wifockie broon
Sits broodin' sae mitherlie,
'Mang the bluebells an' beather, the yow an' the wether,
An' the hee bummin eidentlie.
It maks my heart wae when I think on the day,
On the bent-brown links by the sea,
How, a loon like the rest, I herried your nest,
An' brocht the bit tear to your e'e.
Owre aften sin syne I've owrestapit the line
Whaur frail mortals dauner agee,
But never I ween done ocht half sae mean
As stealin' your broon bairnies three.
But harder the heart o' the moneyed upstart,
Clay-cauld to a' true poesie,
To roast on a spit, as a denty tit-bit,
The bard o' the muirland an' lea.
Noo shake aff the stoor, the dew an' the shoor,
An' lilt your bit innocent glee,
Ye can cock up your tap or sit lown on Earth's lap,
Ye'll ne'er get a mischeef frae me.
This warl o' care still has joys to share,
'Boon a' maun your sang bear the gree,
An' it heartens to feel, i' the land o' the leal,
Your liltins aye sownin shall be.
The pleasures of the garden, the playground, and the farmyard bulked largely in the village boy's year. Delicious it was to "speel" (climb) the flat-topped garden wall, and strip the
