A SCOTCH POEM.
Wae's me, drear, dree, and dra,
A waeful thocht, a fearsome flea,
A wuthering wind, and a'.
Sair, sair thy mither sabs her lane,
Her een, her mou, are wat;
Her cauld kail hae the corbies ta'en,
And grievously she grat.
Ah, me, the suthering of the wind!
Ah, me, the waesome mither!
Ah, me, the bairnies left ahind,
The shither, hither, blither!
"What does it mean?" cried the girls, as Rose folded up the paper and sat down.
"Mean?" said Rose, "I'm sure I don't know. It's Scotch, I tell you! It's the kind of thing that people read, and then they say, 'One of the loveliest gems that Burns ever wrote!' I thought I'd see if I couldn't do one too. Anybody can, I find: it's not at all difficult."
All the poems having been read, Katy now proposed that they should play "Word and Question." She and Clover were accustomed to the game at home, but to some of the others it was quite new.
Each girl was furnished with a slip of paper
