Her bower casement is lattic'd wi' flowers, Tied up wi' silver thread; And comely sits she in the midst, Men's longing een to feed. She waves the ringlets frae her cheek, Wi' her milky, milky han'; And her cheeks seem touch'd wi' the finger o' God, My bonnie Ladie Ann! The morning cloud is tassel'd wi' gowd, Like my luve's broider'd cap, And on the mantle which my luve wears, Are monie a gowden drap. Her bonnie e'ebree's a holie arch Cast by nae earthlie han', And the breath o' God's atween the lips [I wondering gaze on her statelie steps, To my luve, alas! she maunna stoop But I water, and tend, and kiss the flowers O' my bonnie Ladie Ann! Those lines within brackets are not in the copy printed by Cromek-he says "a deal of unseemly chaff had intermixed with the heavy grain, which has cost a little winnowing and sieving;" probably the lines in question may be some of the chaff to which he alludes; however, for the sake of connexion, they are inserted. I am her father's gardener lad, My auld mither gets my wee, wee fee, My Ladie comes, my Ladie gaes, Wi' a fou and kindly han', O the blessing o' God maun mix wi' my luve, CV. O! IF YE HAE A HEART TO SPARE AIR-Duncan Davieson. O! if ye hae a heart to spare, To wile awa that heart frae thee. And thou hast ta'en my heart awa', *Fa',-lot-fate. I canna want thee out my sight, I've heard my eldrin mither say, For I'm sae caught by Cupid's snare, There's Andrew o' the Bramble-knowe, He vows and swears he'll hae me soon, I'll gie his rock anither tow, And gar the body change his tune. For I hae sworn a haly aith, And mair than that, this very day I tauld my mam and dadie baith, Nae ither lad than you I'd hae. CVI. THERE'S NONE TO SOOTHE MY SOUL TO REST. AIR-Bonny was yon rosy brier. There's none to soothe my soul to rest, That heaves it back upon the gale. The little wild bird's merry lay, That wont my lightsome heart to cheer, In murmuring echoes dies away, And melts like sorrow on my ear. The voice of joy no more can cheer, And clos'd that eye alone could charm. CVII. WINIFREDA *. AIR-Eveillez vous belle endormie. Away! let nought to love displeasing, What though no grants of royal donors, Our name, while virtue thus we tender, * We extract this chaste and beautiful address to conjugal love, from a volume of "Miscellaneous Poems," by several hands, published by D. Lewis, London, 1726, wherein it is stated to be "A translation from the ancient British." This, Dr. Aiken, in his Vocal Poetry, p. 152, considers as a |