siller tune, Through glen and heugh, and hope and shaw, Beneath the sun-licht or the moon: But set us in our fishing-shoon Between the Caddon-burn and Peel, And syne we 'll cross the heather broun By fair Tweed-side at Ashiesteel! ENVOY. Deil take the dirty, trading loon Wad gar the water ca' his wheel, And drift his dyes and poisons doun By fair Tweed-side at Ashiesteel! (LOWLAND SCOTCH.) TO T. W. LANG. ENVOY BALLADE OF THE ROYAL GAME OF GOLF. TO LESLIE BALFOUR. (East Fifes hire.) There are laddies will drive ye a ba' To the burn frae the farthermost tee, But ye mauna think driving is a', Ye may heel her, and send her ajee, Ye may land in the sand or the sea; And ye 're dune, sir, ye 're no worth a preen, Tak' the word that an auld man 'll gie, Tak' aye tent to be up on the green! The auld folk are crouse, and they craw That their putting is pawky and slee; In a bunker they 're nae gude ava', But to girn, and to gar the sand flee. And a lassie can putt—ony she,— Be she Maggy, or Bessie, or Jean, But a cleek-shot's the billy for me, Tak' aye tent to be up on the green! I hae play'd in the frost and the thaw, I hae play'd since the year thirty-three, I hae play'd in the rain and the snaw, And I trust I may play till I dee; And I tell ye the truth and nae lee, For I speak o' the thing I hae seen— Tom Morris, I ken, will agree— Tak' aye tent to be up on the green! ENVOY. Prince, faith you 're improving a wee, And, Lord, man, they tell me you 're keen; Tak' the best o' advice that can be, Tak' aye tent to be up on the green! TO LESLIE BALFOUR. ENVOY BALLADE OF THE MIDNIGHT FOREST. AFTER THÉODORE DE BANVILLE. Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old, Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree; The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold, And wolves still dread Diana roaming free In secret woodland with her company. 'T is thought the peasants' hovels know her rite When now the wolds are bathed in silver light, And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey. Then down the dells, with blown soft hair and bright, And through the dim wood Dian threads her way. With water-weeds twined in their locks of gold, The strange cold forest-fairies dance in glee; Sylphs over-timorous and over-bold Haunt the dark hollows where the dwarf may be, The wild red dwarf, the nixies' enemy; Then 'mid their mirth, and laughter, and affright, The sudden Goddess enters, tall and white, With one long sigh for summers pass'd away;
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