Jenny's heart was frank and free, And wooers she had mony, yet Of a' I see, Her sang was ay, Commend me to my Johnie yet. For, air and late, he has sic gate To mak' a body cheerie, that I wish to be, before I die, His ain kind dearie yet. Now Jenny's face was fu' o' grace, Had gow'd and gear mair plenty yet; What tho' he's now gaen far awa', Unless my Johnie chance to fa' In some uncanny battle, yet Till he return, my breast will burn Wi' love that weel may cheer me yet, For I hope to see, before I die, His bairns to him endear me yet. ALLAN-A-DALE. SIR WALTER SCOTT. Allan-a-dale has no faggot for burning; The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, Allan-a-dale was ne'er belted a knight, Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright; Allan-a-dale is no baron or lord, Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word; And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail, Who at Rerecross, on Stanmore, meets Allan-a-dale. Allan-a-dale to his wooing is come, The mother, she ask'd of his household and home: Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill, ! The father was steel, and the mother was stone; THE LASS OF PRESTON-MILL. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. The lark had left the evening cloud, Its gentle breath amang the flowers Scarce stirr'd the thistle's top of down; The dappled swallow left the pool, The stars were blinking o'er the hill, Her naked feet amang the grass Shone like two dewy lilies fair; Her brow beam'd white aneath her locks Black curling o'er her shoulders bare; Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth, Her lips had words and wit at will, And heaven seem'd looking through her een, The lovely lass of Preston-mill. Quoth I, fair lass, wilt thou gang wi' me, Where black-cocks crow, and plovers cry? Six hills are woolly wi' my sheep, Six vales are lowing wi' my kye. I have look'd long for a weel-faur'd lass, I said, sweet maiden, look nae down, That weel could win a woman's will; Now who is he could leave sic a lass, |