"Now let this wilful grief be done,
And dry that cheek so pale:
Young Frank is chief of Errington,
And lord of Langley dale;
His step is first in peaceful ha',
His sword in battle keen :"
But ay she loot the tears down fa',
For Jock o' Hazeldean.

"A chain o' gold ye sall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair,
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
Nor palfrey fresh and fair;

And you, the foremost o' them a',
Shall ride our forest queen :"

But ay

she loot the tears down fa',

For Jock o' Hazeldean.

The kirk was decked at morning-tide,
The tapers glimmered fair;

The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
And dame and knight were there:
They sought her baith by bower and ha';

The ladye was not seen !—

She's o'er the border, and awa
Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean !*

wwwwwwww

THE LORD'S MARIE.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

THE Lord's Marie has keppit her locks
Up wi' a gowden kame;

And she has put on her net-silk hose,
And awa to the tryste has gane.

O saft saft fell the dew on her locks,
And saft saft on her brow,

Ae sweet drap fell on her strawberry lip,

And I kissed it aff, I trow.

*The first stanza of this ballad is ancient. The rest was written for Albyn's Anthology, a collection of Highland airs by Alexander Campbell.

"O whare gat ye that leal maiden,
Sae jimpy-laced and sma?
O whare gat ye that young damsel,
Wha dings our lassies a' ?

O whare gat ye that bonnie bonnie lass,
Wi' heaven in her ee?

O here's ae drap o' the damask wine,
Sweet maiden, will ye prie ?"

Fou white white was her bonnie neck,
Twist wi' the satin twine;
But ruddie ruddie grew her hause,
When she sipped the blude-red wine.
"Come, here's thy health, young stranger doo,
Wha wears the gowden kame:

This nicht will mony drink thy health,
And ken na wha to name !"

66

Play me up Sweit Marie,'" I cried;
And loud the piper blew :

But the fiddler played ay struntum strum,
And down his bow he threw :

"Here's thy kind health i' the ruddie-red wine,
Fair dame o' the stranger land,
For never a pair o' blue een before,
Could mar my gude bow-hand."

Her lips were a cloven hinnie-cherrie,
Sae temptin' to the sicht;

Her locks, ower alabaster brows,
Fell like the mornin' licht.

And, O! her hinnie breath lift her locks,

As through the dance she flew ;

While love lauched in her bonnie blue een,

And dwalt on her comely mou.

"Lowse hings your broidered gowd garter, Fair lady, daur I speak?"

She, trembling, lift her silky hand

To her red red flushin' cheek.

"Ye've drapp'd, ye've drapp'd your broach o' gowd, Thou lord's dauchter sae gay!"

The tears o'erbrimmed her bonnie blue ee,

"O come, O come away!"

"O maid, undo the siller bar;

To my chamber let me win :

And tak this kiss, thou peasant youth;

I daurna let thee in.

And tak," quoth she, " this kame o' gowd,
Wi' my lock o' yellow hair;
For meikle my heart forebodes to me,
I never maun meet thee mair."

BONNIE LADY ANN.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

THERE'S kames o' hinnie 'tween

my

luve's lips,

And gowd amang her hair:

Her breists are lapt in a holy veil ;
Nae mortal een keek there.

What lips daur kiss, or what hand daur touch,

Or what arm o' luve daur span,

The hinnie lips, the creamy lufe,

Or the waist o' Lady Ann?

She kisses the lips o' her bonnie red rose,

Wat wi' the blobs o' dew;

But nae gentle lip, nor semple lip,

Maun touch her ladie mou.

But a broidered belt, wi' a buckle o' gowd,

Her jimpy waist maun span:

Oh, she's an armfu' fit for heaven

My bonnie Lady Ann.

Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers,

Tied up wi' siller thread;

And comely sits she in the midst,

Men's langing een to feed:

She waves the ringlets frae her cheek,

Wi' her milky milky hand;

And her every look beams wi' grace divine;
My bonnie Lady Ann.

The mornin' clud is tasselt wi' gowd,
Like my luve's broidered cap;
And on the mantle that my luve wears,
Is mony a gowden drap.

Her bonnie ee-bree's a holy arch,

Cast by nae earthly han'!

And the breath o' heaven is atween the lips
O' my bonnie Lady Ann.

I wonderin' gaze on her stately steps,
And I beet a hopeless flame!
To my luve, alas! she maunna stoop;
It wad stain her honoured name.
My een are bauld, they dwall on a place
Where I daurna mint my hand;

But I water, and tend, and kiss the flowers
O' my bonnie Lady Ann.

I am but her father's gardener lad,
And puir puir is my fa';

My auld mither gets my wee wee fee,
Wi' fatherless bairnies twa.

My lady comes, my lady gaes,

Wi' a fou and kindly han';

O their blessin' maun mix wi' my luve,
And fa' on Lady Ann.

THE LEA-RIG.

BURNS.

TUNE-The Lea-Rig.

WHEN o'er the hills the eastern star
Tells buchtin-time is near, my jo;
And owsen frae the furrowed field
Return sae douff and weary, 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 midnicht hour,
I'd rove and ne'er be eerie, O,
If through that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie, O.

Although 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.

YOU'RE WELCOME, WHIGS.

YOU'RE welcome, Whigs, from Bothwell brigs!
Your malice is but zeal, boys;
Most holy sprites, the hypocrites,
'Tis sack ye drink, not ale, boys;
I must aver, ye cannot err,

In breaking God's command, boys;
If ye infringe bishops or kings,

You've heaven in your hand, boys.

Suppose ye cheat, disturb the state,
And steep the land with blood, boys;
If secretly your treachery

Be acted, it is good, boys.

The fiend himsell, in midst of hell,
The pope with his intrigues, boys,

You'll equalise in forgeries:

Fair fa' you, pious Whigs, boys.

You'll God beseech, in homely speech,
To his coat-tail you'll claim, boys;
Seek lippies of grace frae his gawcie face,
And bless, and not blaspheme, boys.
Your teachers they can kiss and pray,
In zealous ladies' closet;

Your wits convert by Venus' art;
Your kirk has holy roset.

Which death will tie promiscuously

Her members on the vail, boys;