II.

How we live, my Meg and me, How we love, and how we 'gree, I care na by how few may see; Whistle o'er the lave o't.-- Wha I wish were maggot's meat, Dish'd up in her winding sheet, I could write--but Meg maun see't-- Whistle o'er the lave o't.

* * * * *

O WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL.

Tune--"_My love is lost to me._"

[The poet welcomed with this exquisite song his wife to Nithsdale: the air is one of Oswald's.]