  William Reid was born at Glasgow on the 10th of April 1764. His father, a baker by trade, was enabled to give him a good education at the school of his native city. At an early age he was apprenticed to Messrs Dunlop and Wilson, booksellers; and in the year 1790, along with another enterprising individual, he commenced a bookselling establishment, under the firm of "Brash and Reid." In this business, both partners became eminently successful, their shop being frequented by the literati of the West. The poet Burns cultivated the society of Mr Reid, who proved a warm friend, as he was an ardent admirer, of the Ayrshire bard. He was an enthusiastic patron of literature, was fond of social humour, and a zealous promoter of the interests of Scottish song. Between 1795 and 1798, the firm published in numbers, at one penny each, "Poetry, Original and Selected," which extended to four volumes. To this publication, both Mr Reid, and his partner, Mr Brash, made some original contributions. The work is now very scarce, and is accounted valuable by collectors. Mr Reid died at Glasgow, on the 29th of November 1831, leaving a widow and a family.
THE LEA RIG.[35] Will ye gang o'er the lea rig,
My ain kind dearie, O!
And cuddle there fu' kindly
Wi' me, my kind dearie, O!
At thorny bush, or birken tree,
We 'll daff and never weary, O!
They 'll scug ill een frae you and me,
My ain kind dearie, O!
Nae herds wi' kent or colly there,
Shall ever come to fear ye, O!
But lav'rocks, whistling in the air,
Shall woo, like me, their dearie, O!
While ithers herd their lambs and ewes,
And toil for warld's gear, my jo,
Upon the lea my pleasure grows,
Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O!
At gloamin', if my lane I be,
Oh, but I'm wondrous eerie, O!
And mony a heavy sigh I gie,
When absent frae my dearie, O!
But seated 'neath the milk-white thorn,
In ev'ning fair and clearie, O!
Enraptured, a' my cares I scorn,
When wi' my kind dearie, O!
Whare through the birks the burnie rows,
Aft hae I sat fu' cheerie, O!
Upon the bonny greensward howes,
Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O!
I've courted till I've heard the craw
Of honest chanticleerie, O!
Yet never miss'd my sleep ava,
Whan wi' my kind dearie, O!
For though the night were ne'er sae dark,
And I were ne'er sae weary, O!
I'd meet thee on the lea rig,
My ain kind dearie, O!
While in this weary world of wae,
This wilderness sae dreary, O!
What makes me blythe, and keeps me sae?
'Tis thee, my kind dearie, O!
JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.[36] John Anderson, my jo, John,
I wonder what ye mean,
To rise sae early in the morn,
And sit sae late at e'en;
Ye 'll blear out a' your een, John,
And why should you do so?
Gang sooner to your bed at e'en,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
When Nature first began
To try her canny hand, John,
Her masterpiece was man;
And you amang them a', John,
Sae trig frae tap to toe—
She proved to be nae journeyman,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
Ye were my first conceit;
And ye needna think it strange, John,
That I ca' ye trim and neat;
Though some folks say ye 're auld, John,
I never think ye so;
But I think ye 're aye the same to me,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We 've seen our bairns' bairns;
And yet, my dear John Anderson,
I 'm happy in your arms;
And sae are ye in mine, John,
I 'm sure ye 'll ne'er say, No;
Though the days are gane that we have seen,
John Anderson, my jo.
FAIR, MODEST FLOWER. Tune—"Ye Banks and Braes o' bonnie Doon." Fair, modest flower, of matchless worth!
Thou sweet, enticing, bonny gem;
Blest is the soil that gave thee birth,
And bless'd thine honour'd parent stem.
But doubly bless'd shall be the youth
To whom thy heaving bosom warms;
Possess'd of beauty, love, and truth,
He 'll clasp an angel in his arms.
Though storms of life were blowing snell,
And on his brow sat brooding care,
Thy seraph smile would quick dispel
The darkest gloom of black despair.
Sure Heaven hath granted thee to us,
And chose thee from the dwellers there;
And sent thee from celestial bliss,
To shew what all the virtues are.
KATE O' GOWRIE.[37] Tune—"Locherroch Side." When Katie was scarce out nineteen,
Oh, but she had twa coal-black een!
A bonnier lass ye wadna seen
In a' the Carse o' Gowrie.
Quite tired o' livin' a' his lane,
Pate did to her his love explain,
And swore he 'd be, were she his ain,
The happiest lad in Gowrie.
Quo' she, "I winna marry thee,
For a' the gear that ye can gi'e;
Nor will I gang a step ajee,
For a' the gowd in Gowrie.
My father will gi'e me twa kye;
My mother 's gaun some yarn to dye;
I 'll get a gown just like the sky,
Gif I 'll no gang to Gowrie."
"Oh, my dear Katie, say nae sae!
Ye little ken a heart that 's wae;
Hae! there 's my hand; hear me, I pray,
Sin' thou 'lt no gang to Gowrie:
Since first I met thee at the shiel,
My saul to thee 's been true and leal;
The darkest night I fear nae deil,
Warlock, or witch in Gowrie.
"I fear nae want o' claes nor nocht,
Sic silly things my mind ne'er taught;
I dream a' nicht, and start about,
And wish for thee in Gowrie.
I lo'e thee better, Kate, my dear,
Than a' my rigs and out-gaun gear;
Sit down by me till ance I swear,
Thou 'rt worth the Carse o' Gowrie."
Syne on her mou' sweet kisses laid,
Till blushes a' her cheeks o'erspread;
She sigh'd, and in soft whispers said,
"Oh, Pate, tak me to Gowrie!"
Quo' he, "Let 's to the auld folk gang;
Say what they like, I 'll bide their bang,
And bide a' nicht, though beds be thrang;
But I 'll hae thee to Gowrie."
The auld folk syne baith gi'ed consent;
The priest was ca'd: a' were content;
And Katie never did repent
That she gaed hame to Gowrie.
For routh o' bonnie bairns had she;
Mair strappin' lads ye wadna see;
And her braw lasses bore the gree
Frae a' the rest o' Gowrie.
UPON THE BANKS O' FLOWING CLYDE.[38] Upon the banks o' flowing Clyde
The lasses busk them braw;
But when their best they hae put on,
My Jeanie dings them a';
In hamely weeds she far exceeds
The fairest o' the toun;
Baith sage and gay confess it sae,
Though drest in russit goun.
The gamesome lamb that sucks its dam,
Mair harmless canna be;
She has nae faut, if sic ye ca't,
Except her love for me;
The sparkling dew, o' clearest hue,
Is like her shining een;
In shape and air wha can compare,
Wi' my sweet lovely Jean.
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