Part 2 — PART II (continued 2)

'And there, forlorn, despairing, hid, I'll lay me down and die: 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I.'

Forbid it, Heaven!' the hermit cried, And clasped her to his breast: The wondering fair one turned to chide 'Twas Edwin's self that prest!

'Turn, Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Restored to love and thee.

Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And every care resign; And shall we never, never part, My life—my all that's mine?

'No, never from this hour to part, We'll live and love so true; The sigh that rends thy constant heart, Shall break thy Edwin's too.'

LADY ANNE BARNARD

AULD ROBIN GRAY

WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's come hame, And a' the weary warld to rest are gane, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, Unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride, But saving ae crown-piece he had naething beside; To make the crown a pound my Jamie gaed to sea, And the crown and the pound—they were baith for me.

He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day, When my father brake his arm and the cow was stown away; My mither she fell sick—my Jamie was at sea, And Auld Robin Gray came a courting me.

My father couldna work—my mither couldna spin— I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e, Said: 'Jeanie, O for their sakes, will ye no marry me?'

My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back, But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack, His ship was a wrack—why didna Jamie die, Or why am I spared to cry wae is me?

My father urged me sair—my mither didna speak, But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break; They gied him my hand—my heart was in the sea— And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.

I hadna been his wife a week but only four, When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door, I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think it he Till he said: 'I'm come hame, love, to marry thee!'

Oh, sair sair did we greet, and mickle say of a', I gied him ae kiss, and bade him gang awa'— I wish that I were dead, but I'm na like to die, For, though my heart is broken, I'm but young, wae is me!

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin, I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin, But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, For, oh! Robin Gray, he is kind to me.

ALEXANDER ROSS

WOO'D, AND MARRIED, AND A'.

THE bride cam' out o' the byre, And, oh, as she dighted her cheeks: 'Sirs, I'm to be married the night, And have neither blankets nor sheets;

Have neither blankets nor sheets, Nor scarce a coverlet too; The bride that has a' thing to borrow, Has e'en right muckle ado.' Woo'd, and married, and a', Married, and woo'd, and a'! And was she nae very weel off, That was woo'd, and married, and a'?

Out spake the bride's father, As he cam' in frae the pleugh: 'Oh, haud your tongue, my dochter, And ye'se get gear eneugh; The stirk stands i' the tether, And our braw bawsint yaud, Will carry ye hame your corn— What wad ye be at, ye jaud?'

Out spake the bride's mither: What deil needs a' this pride? I hadna a plack in my pouch That night I was a bride; My gown was linsey-woolsey, And ne'er a sark ava; And ye hae ribbons and buskins, Mae than ane or twa.'

Out spake the bride's brither, As he cam' in wi' the kye: 'Poor Willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye, Had he kent ye as weel as I; For ye're baith proud and saucy, And no for a poor man's wife; Gin I canna get a better, I'se ne'er tak ane i' my life.'

ANONYMOUS

THE BRITISH GRENADIERS

SOME talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules, Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these, But of all the world's great heroes, there's none that can compare, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, to the British Grenadier!

Those heroes of antiquity ne'er saw a cannon ball, Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal; But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears, Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers!

Whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades, Our leaders march with fuses, and we with hand grenades, We throw them from the glacis, about the enemies' ears, Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers!

And when the siege is over, we to the town repair, The townsmen cry, Hurrah, boys, here comes a Grenadier! Here come the Grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears!' Then sing, tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers!

Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the louped clothes, May they and their commanders live happy all their years, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers!

ANONYMOUS

HERE 'S TO THE MAIDEN

HERE 's to the maiden of bashful fifteen; Now to the widow of fifty; Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean And here's to the housewife that 's thrifty. Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass, I'll warrant she'll prove An excuse for the glass.

Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize, Now to the damsel with none, Sir, Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, And now to the nymph with but one, Sir.

Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow, Now to her that's as brown as a berry, Here's to the wife with a face full of woe, And now to the damsel that's merry.

For let her be clumsy, or let her be slim, Young or ancient, I care not a feather, So fill up a bumper, nay, fill to the brim, And let us e'en toast 'em together, Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass, I'll warrant she'll prove An excuse for the glass.

THOMAS CHATTERTON

BRISTOW TRAGEDY

THE feathered songster chanticleer Had wound his bugle-horn, And told the early villager The coming of the morn:

King Edward saw the ruddy streaks Of light eclipse the gray, And heard the raven's croaking throat, Proclaim the fated day.

'Thou'rt right,' quoth he, for by the God That sits enthroned on high! Charles Bawdin, and his fellows twain, To-day shall surely die.'

Then with a jug of nappy ale His knights did on him wait; 'Go tell the traitor, that to-day He leaves this mortal state.'

Sir Canterlone then bended low, With heart brimful of woe; He journeyed to the castle-gate, And to Sir Charles did go.

But when he came, his children twain, And eke his loving wife, With briny tears did wet the floor, For good Sir Charles's life.

'O good Sir Charles,' said Canterlone, 'Bad tidings I do bring.' 'Speak boldly, man,' said brave Sir Charles 'What says the traitor-king?'

'I grieve to tell: before yon sun Does from the welkin fly, He hath upon his honour sworn, That thou shalt surely die.'

'We all must die,' said brave Sir Charles, Of that I'm not afraid; What boots to live a little space? Thank Jesus, I'm prepared.

'But tell thy king, for mine he's not, I'd sooner die to-day, Than live his slave, as many are, Though I should live for aye.'

Then Canterlone he did go out, To tell the mayor straight To get all things in readiness For good Sir Charles's fate.

Then Mr. Canynge sought the king, And fell down on his knee; 'I'm come,' quoth he, unto your grace, To move your clemency.'

'Then,' quoth the king, your tale speak out, You have been much our friend: Whatever your request may be, We will to it attend.'

My noble liege, all my request Is for a noble knight, Who, though mayhap he has done wrong, He thought it still was right.

He has a spouse and children twain; All ruined are for aye, If that you are resolved to let Charles Bawdin die to-day.'

'Speak not of such a traitor vile,' The king in fury said; 'Before the evening-star doth shine, Bawdin shall lose his head:

'Justice does loudly for him call, And he shall have his meed: Speak, Mr. Canynge, what thing else At present do you need?'

'My noble liege,' good Canynge said, Leave justice to our God, And lay the iron rule aside; Be thine the olive rod.

'Was God to search our hearts and reins, The best were sinners great; Christ's vicar only knows no sin, In all this mortal state.

Let mercy rule thine infant reign, 'Twill fix thy crown full sure; From race to race thy family All sovereigns shall endure.

But if with blood and slaughter thou Begin thy infant reign, Thy crown upon thy children's brows Will never long remain.'

'Canynge, away! this traitor vile Has scorned my power and me; How canst thou, then, for such a man Entreat my clemency?'

'My noble liege, the truly brave Will valorous actions prize: Respect a brave and noble mind, Although in enemies.'

'Canynge, away! By God in heaven That did me being give, I will not taste a bit of bread Whilst this Sir Charles doth live!

'By Mary, and all saints in heaven, This sun shall be his last!' Then Canynge dropped a briny tear, And from the presence passed.

With heart brimful of gnawing grief, He to Sir Charles did go, And sat him down upon a stool, And tears began to flow.

We all must die,' said brave Sir Charles; 'What boots it how or when? Death is the sure, the certain fate, Of all we mortal men.

'Say why, my friend, thy honest soul Runs over at thine eye; Is it for my most welcome doom That thou dost child-like cry?'

Saith godly Canynge: 'I do weep, That thou so soon must die, And leave thy sons and helpless wife 'Tis this that wets mine eye.'

'Then dry the tears that out thine eye From godly fountains spring; Death I despise, and all the power Of Edward, traitor-king.

'When through the tyrant's welcome means I shall resign my life, The God I serve will soon provide For both my sons and wife.

'Before I saw the lightsome sun, This was appointed me; Shall mortal man repine or grudge What God ordains to be?

'How oft in battle have I stood, When thousands died around; When smoking streams of crimson blood Imbrued the fattened ground?

'How did I know that every dart That cut the airy way, Might not find passage to my heart, And close mine eyes for aye?

'And shall I now, for fear of death, Look wan and be dismayed? No! from my heart fly childish fear; Be all the man displayed.

'Ah, godlike Henry, God forefend, And guard thee and thy son, If 'tis his will; but if 'tis not, Why, then his will be done.

'My honest friend, my fault has been To serve God and my prince; And that I no time-server am, My death will soon convince.

'In London city was I born, Of parents of great note; My father did a noble arms Emblazon on his coat:

'I make no doubt but he is gone Where soon I hope to go, Where we for ever shall be blest, From out the reach of woe.

'He taught me justice and the laws With pity to unite; And eke he taught me how to know The wrong cause from the right:

'He taught me with a prudent hand To feed the hungry poor, Nor let my servants drive away The hungry from my door:

'And none can say but all my life I have his wordis kept; And summed the actions of the day Each night before I slept.

'I have a spouse, go ask of her If I defiled her bed? I have a king, and none can lay Black treason on my head.

'In Lent, and on the holy eve, From flesh I did refrain; Why should I then appear dismayed To leave this world of pain?

'No, hapless Henry, I rejoice I shall not see thy death; Most willingly in thy just cause Do I resign my breath.

'Oh, fickle people! ruined land! Thou wilt ken peace no moe; While Richard's sons exalt themselves, Thy brooks with blood will flow.

'Say, were ye tired of godly peace, And godly Henry's reign, That you did chop your easy days For those of blood and pain?

'What though I on a sledge be drawn, And mangled by a hind, I do defy the traitor's power; He cannot harm my mind:

'What though, uphoisted on a pole, My limbs shall rot in air, And no rich monument of brass Charles Bawdin's name shall bear;

'Yet in the holy book above, Which time can't eat away, There with the servants of the Lord My name shall live for aye.

'Then welcome death, for life eterne I leave this mortal life: Farewell, vain world, and all that's dear, My sons and loving wife!

'Now death as welcome to me comes As e'er the month of May; Now would I even wish to live, With my dear wife to stay.

Saith Canynge 'Tis a goodly thing To be prepared to die; And from this world of pain and grief To God in heaven to fly.'

And now the bell began to toll, And clarions to sound; Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet A-prancing on the ground.

And just before the officers, His loving wife came in, Weeping unfeigned tears of woe With loud and dismal din.

'Sweet Florence, now I pray forbear, In quiet let me die; Pray God that every Christian soul May look on death as I.

'Sweet Florence, why these briny tears? They wash my soul away, And almost make me wish for life, With thee, sweet dame, to stay.

''Tis but a journey I shall go Unto the land of bliss; Now, as a proof of husband's love Receive this holy kiss.'

Then Florence, faltering in her say, Trembling these wordis spoke: 'Ah, cruel Edward! bloody king! My heart is well-nigh broke.

'Ah, sweet Sir Charles, why wilt thou go Without thy loving wife? The cruel axe that cuts thy neck,' It eke shall end my life.'

And now the officers came in To bring Sir Charles away, Who turned to his loving wife, And thus to her did say:

'I go to life, and not to death; Trust thou in God above, And teach thy sons to fear the Lord, And in their hearts Him love.

'Teach them to run the noble race That I their father run. Florence, should death thee take—adieu! Ye officers, lead on.'

Then Florence raved as any mad, And did her tresses tear; 'O stay, my husband, lord, and life!' Sir Charles then dropped a tear.

Till tired out with raving loud, She fell upon the floor; Sir Charles exerted all his might, And marched from out the door.

Upon a sledge he mounted then, With looks full brave and sweet; Looks that enshone no more concern Than any in the street.

Before him went the council-men, In scarlet robes and gold, And tassels spangling in the sun, Much glorious to behold:

The friars of Saint Augustine next Appeared to the sight, All clad in homely russet weeds, Of godly monkish plight:

In different parts a godly psalm Most sweetly they did chant; Behind their back six minstrels came, Who tuned the strange bataunt.

Then five-and-twenty archers came; Each one the bow did bend, From rescue of King Henry's friends Sir Charles for to defend.

Bold as a lion came Sir Charles, Drawn on a cloth-laid sledde, By two black steeds in trappings white, With plumes upon their head.

Behind him five-and-twenty more Of archers strong and stout, With bended bow each one in hand, Marched in goodly rout.

Saint James's friars marched next, Each one his part did chant; Behind their backs six minstrels came, Who tuned the strange bataunt.

Then came the mayor and aldermen, In cloth of scarlet decked; And their attending men each one, Like eastern princes tricked.

And after them a multitude Of citizens did throng; The windows were all full of heads, As he did pass along.

And when he came to the high cross, Sir Charles did turn and say: O Thou that savest man from sin, Wash my soul clean this day.'

At the great minster window sat The king in mickle state, To see Charles Bawdin go along To his most welcome fate.

Soon as the sledde drew nigh enough, That Edward he might hear, The brave Sir Charles he did stand up, And thus his words declare:

'Thou seest me, Edward! traitor vile! Exposed to infamy; But be assured, disloyal man, I'm greater now than thee.

By foul proceedings, murder, blood, Thou wearest now a crown; And hast appointed me to die By power not thine own.

'Thou thinkest I shall die to-day; I have been dead till now, And soon shall live to wear a crown For aye upon my brow;

'Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years, Shalt rule this fickle land, To let them know how wide the rule 'Twixt king and tyrant hand.

'Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave! Shall fall on thy own head'— From out of hearing of the king Departed then the sledde.

King Edward's soul rushed to his face, He turned his head away, And to his brother Gloucester He thus did speak and say:

'To him that so-much-dreaded death No ghastly terrors bring; Behold the man! he spake the truth; He's greater than a king!'

'So let him die!' Duke Richard said; 'And may each one our foes Bend down their necks to bloody axe, And feed the carrion crows.'

And now the horses gently drew Sir Charles up the high hill; The axe did glister in the sun, His precious blood to spill.

Sir Charles did up the scaffold go, As up a gilded car Of victory, by valorous chiefs Gained in the bloody war.

And to the people he did say: 'Behold you see me die, For serving loyally my king, My king most rightfully.

'As long as Edward rules this land, No quiet you will know; Your sons and husbands shall be slain, And brooks with blood shall flow.

'You leave your good and lawful king When in adversity; Like me, unto the true cause stick, And for the true cause die.'

Then he, with priests, upon his knees, A prayer to God did make, Beseeching Him unto Himself His parting soul to take.

Then, kneeling down, he laid his head Most seemly on the block; Which from his body fair at once The able headsman stroke:

And out the blood began to flow, And round the scaffold twine; And tears, enough to wash't away, Did flow from each man's eyne.

The bloody axe his body fair Into four partis cut; And every part, and eke his head, Upon a pole was put.

One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill, One on the minster-tower, And one from off the castle-gate The crowen did devour.

The other on Saint Paul's good gate, A dreary spectacle; His head was placed on the high cross, In high street most noble.

Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate: God prosper long our king, And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul, In heaven God s mercy sing!

MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA

OH, sing unto my roundelay; Oh, drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holiday, Like a running river be; My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought was he; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; Oh! he lies by the willow-tree. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing, In the briered dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing, To the nightmares as they go. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true-love's shroud; Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

Here, upon my true-love's grave, Shall the garish flowers be laid, Nor one holy saint to save All the sorrows of a maid. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll bind the briers, Round his holy corse to gre; Elfin-fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

Come with acorn cup and thorn, Drain my heart's blood all away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day, My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

Water-witches, crowned with reytes, Bear me to your deadly tide. I die—I come—my true-love waits. Thus the damsel spake, and died.

WILLIAM BLAKE

THE PIPER

PIPING down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he, laughing, said to me,

'Pipe a song about a lamb,' So I piped with merry cheer; Piper, pipe that song again,' So I piped: he wept to hear.

Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, Sing thy songs of happy cheer.' So I sang the same again, While he wept with joy to hear.

'Piper, sit thee down and write In a book that all may read.' So he vanish'd from my sight: And I plu ck'd a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen, And I stain'd the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.

THE TIGER

TIGER, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the ardour of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire— What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand form'd thy dread feet?

What the hammer, what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? Did God smile his work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee?

ROBERT BURNS

SCOTS WHA HAE

SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie!

Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front of battle lour; See approach proud Edward's power— Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's King and Law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Free-man stand, or free-man fa'? Let him follow me!

By Oppression's woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow! Let us do, or die!

FOR A' THAT

IS there, for honest poverty, That hings his head, and a' that; The coward-slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, and a' that; Our toils obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea's stamp: The man's the gowd for a' that.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin grey, and a' that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,' Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that: For a' that, and a' that, His riband, star, an' a' that, The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak' a belted knight, A marquis, duke, an' a' that; But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith he mauna fa' that! For a' that, an' a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o sense an' pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a' that; That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, an' a' that. For a' that, and a' that, It's comin' yet, for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that.

A RED, RED ROSE

O, MY luve 's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June: O, my luve's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass, So deep in luve am I: And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun: I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve, And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my luve Tho' it were ten thousand mile!

COMIN' THRO' THE RYE

O, JENNY'S a' weet, poor body, Jenny's seldom dry; She draigl't a' her petticoatie, Comin' thro' the rye.

Comin' thro' the rye, poor body, Comin' thro' the rye, She draigl't a' her petticoatie, Comin' thro' the rye!

Gin a body meet a body— Comin' thro' the rye; Gin a body kiss a body— Need a body cry?

Gin a body meet a body Comin' thro' the glen, Gin a body kiss a body Need the warld ken?

Jenny 's a' weet, poor body; Jenny 's seldom dry; She draigl't a' her petticoatie, Comin' thro' the rye.

PHILLIS THE FAIR

WHILE larks with little wing Fann'd the pure air, Tasting the breathing spring, Forth I did fare: Gay the sun's golden eye Peep'd o'er the mountains high; 'Such thy morn,' did I cry, 'Phillis the fair!'

In each bird's careless song Glad did I share; While yon wild flowers among, Chance led me there: Sweet to the opening day, Rosebuds bent the dewy spray; 'Such thy bloom,' did I say, 'Phillis the fair!'

Down in a shady walk, Doves cooing were, I mark'd the cruel hawk Caught in a snare; So kind may Fortune be, Such make his destiny, He who would injure thee, Phillis the fair!

AE FOND KISS

AE fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas! for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her was to love her; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met—or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas! for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!

MY BONNY MARY

GO fetch to me a pint o' wine, And fill it in a silver tassie; That I may drink, before I go, A service to my bonny lassie; The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry; The ship rides by the Berwick law, And I maun leave my bonny Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody; But it's not the roar o' sea or shore Wad make me langer wish to tarry; Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar It's leaving thee, my bonny Mary.

AFTON WATER

FLOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; There oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY

MY heart is sair, I daurna tell, My heart is sair for Somebody; I could wake a winter night, For the sake o' Somebody! Oh-hon! for Somebody! Oh-hey! for Somebody! I could range the world around, For the sake o' Somebody.

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, O, sweetly smile on Somebody! Frae ilka danger keep him free, And send me safe my Somebody. Oh-hon! for Somebody! Oh-hey! for Somebody! I wad do—what wad I not? For the sake o' Somebody!

WHISTLE, AND I 'LL COME TO YE, MY LAD

O WHISTLE, and I'll come to ye, my lad; O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad: Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad.

But warily tent, when ye come to court me, And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee; Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, And come as ye were na comin' to me.

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie But steal me a blink o' your bonie black ee, Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me.

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee; But court na anither, tho jokin' ye be, For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.

O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad; O whistle, and I 'll come to ye, my lad: Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad.

THE DE'IL'S AWA' WI' THE EXCISEMAN

THE De'il cam fiddling thro' the town, And danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman; And ilka wife cry'd 'Auld Mahoun, We wish you luck o' your prize, man.

'We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink, We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man; And monie thanks to the muckle black De'il That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.

'There's threesome reels, and foursome reels, There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man; But the ae best dance that cam to our lan', Was—the De'il 's awa wi' the Exciseman.

We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink, We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man; And monie thanks to the muckle black De'il That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.'

LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS

LASSIE wi' the lint-white locks, Bonie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? Wilt thou be my dearie O?

Now nature cleeds the flowery lea, And a' is young and sweet like thee; O wilt thou share its joys wi' me, And say thou'lt be my dearie O?

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks . . .

And when the welcome simmer-shower Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, We'll to the breathing woodbine bower At sultry noon, my dearie O. Lassie wi' the lint-white locks . . .

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, The weary shearer's hameward way, Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, And talk o' love, my dearie O. Lassie wi' the lint-white locks . . .

And when the howling wintry blast Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest; Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, I'll comfort thee, my dearie O. Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, Bonie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? Wilt thou be my dearie O?

I LOVE MY JEAN

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best:

There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And monie a hill between; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air:

There's not a bonie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green; There's not a bonie bird that sings, But, minds me o' my Jean.

THE HAPPY TRIO

O, WILLIE brew'd a peck o' maut, And Rob and Allan cam to pree; Three blither hearts that lee-lang night, Ye wad na find in Christendie.

We are na fou, we're no that fou, But just a drappie in our ee: The cock may craw, the day may daw, And aye we'll taste the barley bree.

Here are we met, three merry boys, Three merry boys, I trove, are we; And monie a night we've merry been, And monie mae we hope to be!

It is the moon, I ken her horn, That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie; She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, But by my sooth she'll wait a wee!

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, A cuckold, coward loun is he! Wha first beside his chair shall fa', He is the King amang us three! We are na fou, we're no that fou, But just a drappie in our ee: The cock may craw, the day may daw, And aye we'll taste the barley bree.

JOHN ANDERSON MY JO

JOHN ANDERSON my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo.

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING

SHE is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.

I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer, And neist my heart I'll wear her, For fear my jewel tine.

She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.

The warld's wrack, we share o't, The warstle and the care o't; Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, And think my lot divine.

DUNCAN GRAY

DUNCAN GRAY came here to woo, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, On blithe yule night when we were fou, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Maggie coost her head fu' high, Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh; Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd; Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn; Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Slighted love is sair to bide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie die? She may gae to—France for me! Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

How it comes let doctors tell, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Meg grew sick—as he grew well, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings; And O, her een, they spak sic things! Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan was a lad o' grace, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Maggie's was a piteous case, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan couldna be her death, Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath; Now they 're crouse and cantie baith! Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

MY AIN KIND DEARIE O

WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo; And owsen frae the furrow'd field Return sae dowf and wearie O; Down by the burn, where scented birks Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, I 'll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O.

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, My ain kind dearie O. Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, And I were ne'er sae wearie O, I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O.

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; At noon the fisher seeks the glen, Along the burn to steer, my jo; Gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey, It maks my heart sae cheery O, To meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O.

THE THORN

FROM the white blossom'd sloe my dear Chloe requested A sprig her fair breast to adorn, From the white blossom'd sloe my dear Chloe requested, A sprig her fair breast to adorn. No! By heav'n! I exclaimed, may I perish, If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn!

When I show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry, She blushed like the dawning of morn, When I show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry, She blushed like the dawning of morn. Yes! I'll consent, she replied, if you promise, That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn.

JOHN BARLEYCORN

THERE was three kings into the East, Three kings both great and high, And they hae sworn a solemn oath, John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down, Put clods upon his head, And they hae sworn a solemn oath, John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful Spring came kindly on, And showers began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surpris'd them all.

The sultry suns of Summer came, And he grew thick and strong, His head well-armed wi' pointed spears, That no one should him wrong.

The sober Autumn enter'd mild, When he grew wan and pale; His bending joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fail.

His colour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage.

They 've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, And cut him by the knee; And tied him fast upon the cart, Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back, And cudgell'd him full sore; They hung him up before the storm, And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim, They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor, To work him further woe, And still as signs of life appear'd, They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, The marrow of his bones; But a miller used him worst of all, For he crush'd him between two stones.

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, And drank it round and round; And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of noble enterprise; For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise.

'Twill make a man forget his woe; 'Twill heighten all his joy; 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand; And may his great prosperity Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

ANONYMOUS

THE BANKS OF ALLAN WATER

ON the banks of Allan Water, When the sweet spring time did fall, Was the miller's lovely daughter, Fairest of them all. For his bride a soldier sought her, And a winning tongue had he, On the banks of Allan Water, None so gay as she.

On the banks of Allan Water, When brown autumn spread his store, There I saw the miller's daughter, But she smiled no more. For the summer grief had brought her, And the soldier false was he, On the banks of Allan Water, None so sad as she.

On the banks of Allan Water, When the winter snow fell fast, Still was seen the miller's daughter, Chilling blew the blast. But the miller's lovely daughter, Both from cold and care was free, On the banks of Allan Water, There a corse lay she.

SAMUEL ROGERS

DEAR IS MY LITTLE NATIVE VALE

DEAR is my little native vale, The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale To every passing villager; The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, That breathe a gale of fragrance round, I charm the fairy-footed hours With my loved lute's romantic sound; Or crowns of living laurel weave For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day, The ballet danced in twilight glade, The canzonet and roundelay Sung in the silent greenwood shade: These simple joys, that never fail, Shall bind me to my native vale.

A WISH

MINE be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall, shall linger near.

The swallow oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter near her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing, In russet gown and apron blue.

The village church beneath the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD

THE FAKENHAM GHOST

THE lawns were dry in Euston park; (Here Truth inspires my tale) The lonely footpath, still and dark, Led over hill and dale.

Benighted was an ancient dame, And fearful haste she made To gain the vale of Fakenham And hail its willow shade.

Her footsteps knew no idle stops, But followed faster still, And echoed to the darksome copse That whispered on the hill;

Where clamorous rooks, yet scarcely hushed, Bespoke a peopled shade, And many a wing the foliage brushed, And hovering circuits made.

The dappled herd of grazing deer, That sought the shades by day, Now started from her path with fear, And gave the stranger way.

Darker it grew; and darker fears Came o'er her troubled mind— When now a short quick step she hears Come patting close behind.

She turned; it stopped; nought could she see Upon the gloomy plain! But as she strove the sprite to flee, She heard the same again.

Now terror seized her quaking frame, For, where the path was bare, The trotting Ghost kept on the same She muttered many a prayer.

Yet once again, amidst her fright, She tried what sight could do; When through the cheating glooms of night A monster stood in view.

Regardless of whate'er she felt, It followed down the plain! She owned her sins, and down she knelt And said her prayers again.

Then on she sped; and hope grew strong, The white park gate in view; Which pushing hard, so long it swung That Ghost and all passed through.

Loud fell the gate against the post! Her heart-strings like to crack; For much she feared the grisly Ghost Would leap upon her back.

Still on, pat, pat, the goblin went, As it had done before; Her strength and resolution spent, She fainted at the door.

Out came her husband, much surprised, Out came her daughter dear; Good-natured souls! all unadvised Of what they had to fear.

The candle's gleam pierced through the night, Some short space o'er the green; And there the little trotting sprite Distinctly might be seen.

An ass's foal had lost its dam Within the spacious park; And simple as the playful lamb Had followed in the dark.

No goblin he; no imp of sin; No crimes had ever known; They took the shaggy stranger in, And reared him as their own.

His little hoofs would rattle round Upon the cottage floor; The matron learned to love the sound That frightened her before.

A favourite the Ghost became, And 'twas his fate to thrive; And long he lived and spread his fame, And kept the joke alive.

For many a laugh went through the vale; And some conviction too: Each thought some other goblin tale, Perhaps, was just as true.

ANONYMOUS

THE KEEL ROW

As I came thro' Sandgate, Thro' Sandgate, thro' Sandgate, As I came thro' Sandgate I heard a lassie sing, O weel may the keel row, The keel row, the keel row, O weel may the keel row, That my laddie's in.

O wha 's like my Johnny, Sae leith, sae blythe, sae bonny? He's foremost among the mony Keel lads o' coaly Tyne: He'll set and row so tightly, Or in the dance—so sprightly— He'll cut and shuffle sightly; 'Tis true,—were he not mine.

He wears a blue bonnet, Blue bonnet, blue bonnet; He wears a blue bonnet, And a dimple in his chin: And weel may the keel row, The keel row, the keel row; And weel may the keel row, That my laddie's in.

THE BLUE BELL OF SCOTLAND

OH where, and oh where, is your Highland laddie gone? He's gone to fight the French for King George upon the throne; And it's oh, in my heart, how I wish him safe at home!

Oh where, and oh where, does your Highland laddie dwell? He dwells in merry Scotland, at the sign of the Blue Bell; And it's oh, in my heart, that I love my laddie well.

In what clothes, in what clothes is your Highland laddie clad? His bonnet's of the Saxon green, his waistcoat's of the plaid; And it's oh, in my heart, that I love my Highland lad.

Suppose, oh, suppose that your Highland lad should die? The bagpipes shall play over him, and I'll lay me down and cry; And it's oh, in my heart, I wish he may not die.

LADY NAIRNE

THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN

THE Laird o' Cockpen he's proud an' he's great, His mind is ta'en up wi' the things o' the State; He wanted a wife his braw house to keep, But favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek.

Doon by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, At his table-head he thocht she 'd look well; M'Cleish's ae dochter, o' Clavers-ha' Lee, A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree.

His wig was weel pouther'd, as gude as when new; His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue; He put on a ring, a sword, an' cocked hat, An' wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that?

He took the grey mare, he rade cannilie, An' rapped at the yett o' Clavers-ha' Lee; 'Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben,— She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen.'

Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flow'r wine; 'An' what brings the Laird at sic a like time?' She put aff her apron, an' on her silk goon, Her mutch wi' red ribbons, an' gaed awa doon.

An' when she cam' ben he bowed fu' low, An' what was his errand he soon let her know; Amazed was the Laird when the lady said Na!' An' wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'!

Dumfounder'd was he, but nae sigh did he gi'e, He mounted his mare an' he rade cannilie; An' often he thocht, as he gaed through the glen, 'She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen!'

CALLER HERRIN'

WHA'LL buy my caller herrin'? They're bonnie fish and halesome farin'; Wha'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth?

When ye were sleepin' on your pillows, Dreamed ye aught o' our puir fellows, Darkling as they faced the billows, A' to fill the woven willows? Buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? They 're no brought here without brave darin'; Buy my caller herrin', Hauled thro' wind and rain. Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? . . .

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? Oh, ye may ca' them vulgar farin'; Wives and mithers, maist despairin', Ca' them lives o' men. Wha ll buy my caller herrin'? . . .

When the creel o' herrin' passes, Ladies, clad in silks and laces, Gather in their braw pelisses, Cast their heads, and screw their faces. Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? . . .

Caller herrin's no got lightlie, Ye can trip the spring fu' tightlie; Spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin', Gow has set you a' a-singin' Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? . . .

Neebour wives, now tent my tellin', When the bonnie fish ye're sellin', At ae word be in yer dealin'— Truth will stand when a' thing's failin'. Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? They 're bonnie fish and halesome farin' Wha 'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth?

CHARLES DIBDIN

TOM BOWLING

HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew; No more he'll hear the tempest howling, For death has broach'd him to. His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft, Faithful, below, he did his duty But now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare; His friends were many and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair: And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, Ah, many 's the time and oft! But mirth is turned to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When He, who all commands, Shall give, to call life's crew together, The word to pipe all hands. Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, In vain Tom's life has doff'd, For, though his body's under hatches, His soul has gone aloft.

BLOW HIGH, BLOW LOW

BLOW high, blow low, let tempests tear The mainmast by the board; My heart with thoughts of thee, my dear, And love, well stored, Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, The roaring winds, the raging sea, In hopes on shore To be once more Safe moor'd with thee!

Aloft while mountains high we go, The whistling winds that scud along, And surges roaring from below, Shall my signal be, To think on thee, And this shall be my song: Blow high, blow low.

And on that night when all the crew The mem'ry of their former lives O'er flowing cans of flip renew, And drink their sweethearts and their wives, I'll heave a sigh, and think on thee; And, as the ship rolls through the sea, The burthen of my song shall be Blow high, blow low.

THE JOLLY YOUNG WATERMAN

AND did you not hear of a jolly young Waterman, Who at Blackfriars Bridge us'd for to ply, And he feather'd his oars with such skill and dexterity, Winning each heart and delighting each eye. He look'd so neat and row'd so steadily, The maidens all flock'd to his boat so readily, And he eyed the young rogues with so charming an air, That this Waterman ne'er was in want of a fare.

What sights of fine folks he oft row'd in his wherry, 'Twas cleaned out so nice and so painted withall, He always was first oars when the fine city ladies, In a party to Ranelagh went, or Vauxhall. And oft-times would they be giggling and leering, But 'twas all one to Tom their jibing and jeering, For loving or liking he little did care, For this Waterman ne'er was in want of a fare.

And yet but to see how strangely things happen, As he row'd along thinking of nothing at all, He was ply'd by a damsel so lovely and charming, That she smil'd, and so straightway in love he did fall. And would this young damsel e'en banish his sorrow, He'd wed her to-night, before even to-morrow, And how should this Waterman ever know care, When he's married and never in want of a fare?