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
O' my bonnie Ladie Ann!

[I wondering gaze on her statelie steps,
And I beet a hopeless flame;

To my luve, alas! she maunna stoop
It wad stain her honour'd name.]
My e'en are bauld, they dwall on a place,
Where I darena mint my han';

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,
And poor, poor, is my fa' *;

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

My Ladie comes, my Ladie gaes,

Wi' a fou and kindly han',

O the blessing o' God maun mix wi' my luve,
And fa' on Ladie Ann!

CV.

O! IF YE HAE A HEART TO SPARE

AIR-Duncan Davieson.

O! if ye hae a heart to spare,
And yet refuse that heart to gie,
It will but gar me try the mair

To wile awa that heart frae thee.
For thou hast stown into my breast,

And thou hast ta'en my heart awa',
Wi' thoughts o' thee I've țint my rest,
And yet I pardon thee for't a'

*Fa',-lot-fate.

I canna want thee out my sight,
I weary for thee night and day,
'Tis thee I think o' aye at night,
Whan I gae ben the house to pray.
A youthfu' life's a sinfu' time,

I've heard my eldrin mither say,
But, oh! if love be made a crime,
Then I hae cause to be right wae.

For I'm sae caught by Cupid's snare,
That if by chance I hear thy name,
My heart plays dunt ere I'm aware,
And sets my bosom in a flame,
Sae, if ye're willing, here's my hand,
And dinna think me pert or bauld,
Tho' young and daft, yet wedlock's band
Will wear me wise as I grow auld.

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,
There's none my load of grief to share,
Or wake to joy this lonely breast,
Or light the gloom of dark despair.
Oft to the winds my grief I tell,
They bear along the mournful tale,
To dreary echo's rocky cell,

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,
The look of love no more can warm,
Şince mute for aye's that voice so dear,

And clos'd that eye alone could charm.

CVII.

WINIFREDA *.

AIR-Eveillez vous belle endormie.

Away! let nought to love displeasing,
My Winifreda, move your care;
Let nought delay the heavenly blessing,
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.

What though no grants of royal donors,
With pompous titles grace our blood;
We'll shine in more substantial honours,
And, to be noble, we'll be good.

Our name, while virtue thus we tender,
Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke;
And all the great ones they shall wonder,
How they respect such little folk.

* 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