p. 41Her mantle large of greenish hue and robe of tartan shone, And round its mystic border seen was Luger, Ayr, and Doon; A leaf-clad holly bough was twined so graceful round her brow, She was the darling native muse of Scotia then, as now: So grand old Coila’s genius on this January morn, Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

p. 41

She vowed she ne’er would leave him till he sung old Scotia’s plains— The daisy, and the milk-white thorn he tuned in lovely strains; And sung of yellow autumn, or some lovely banks and braes: And make each cottage home resound with his sweet tuneful lays, And sing how Coila’s genius, on a January morn, Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

She could not teach him painting like her Cunningham at home, Nor could she teach him sculpturing like Angelo of Rome; But she taught him how to wander her lovely hills among, And sing her bonny burns and glens in simple rustic song; This old Coila’s genius did that January morn, Vow in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

p. 42And in the nights of winter, when stormy winds do roar, And the fierce dashing waves are heard on Ayr’s old craggy shore, The young and old encircled around the cheerful fire, Will talk of Rob the Ploughman and tune the Scottish lyre; And sing how Coila’s genius on a January morn, Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

p. 42

John o’f’ Bog an’ Keighley Feffy Goast: A TALE O’ POVERTY

CONTENTS

“Some books are lies fra end to end, And some great lies were never penn’d; But this that I am gaun to tell, * * * Lately on a night befel.”—Burns.

Burns

’Twor twelve o’clock wun winter’s neet, Net far fra Kersmas time, When I met wee this Feffy Goast, The subject of mi rhyme.

I’d been hard up fer monny a week, Mi way I cuddant see, Fer trade an’ commerce wor as bad As ivver they could be.

p. 43T’poor hand-loom chaps wor running wild, An’ t’combers wor quite sick, Fer weeks they nivver pool’d a slip, Ner t’weivers wave a pick.

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