Слике страница
PDF
ePub

SONG.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

Tho' richer swains thy love pursue,
In Sunday gear and bonnets new ;
And every fair before thee lay

Their silken gifts with colours gay:
They love thee not, alas! so well
As one who sighs and dare not tell ;
Who haunts thy dwelling, night and noon,
In tatter'd hose, and clouted shoon.

I grieve not for my wayward lot,
My empty folds, my roofless cot;
Nor hateful pity, proudly shown,
Nor alter'd looks nor friendship flown;
Nor yet my dog with lanken sides,
Who by his master still abides;
But how will Nan prefer my boon,
In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon!

THE GREEN BOWERS OF BARGENY.

HUGH AINSLIE.

I left ye, Jeanie, blooming fair
'Mang the bourocks of Bargeny;
I've found ye on the banks of Ayr,
And sair ye're alter'd, Jeanie :
I left ye 'mang the woods sae green,
In rustic weed befitting;

I've found buskit like a queen,

ye

In painted chambers sitting.

I left ye like a wanton lamb

That plays 'mang Haydart heather; I've found ye now a sober dame,

A wife, and eke a mither. Ye're fairer, statelier, I can see;

Ye're wiser, nae doubt, Jeanie ;But Oh! I'd rather met wi' thee

''Mang the green bowers of Bargeny.

THE BROKEN HEART OF ANNIE.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Down yon green glen, in yon wee bower,
Lived fair and lovely Annie:
Ere she saw seventeen simmer suns,
She waxed wond'rous bonnie.
Young Lord Dalzell at her bower door
Had privily been calling,

When she grew faint, and sick of heart,
And moanings fill'd her dwalling.

I found her as a lily flower,

When dew hangs in its blossom,
Wet were her cheeks, and a sweet babe

Hung smiling at her bosom.

Such throbs ran through her frame, as seem'd Her heart and soul to sever;

In no one's face she look'd-her bloom

Was fading--and for ever.

Thou hast thy father's smile, my babe,
Maids' eyes to dim with grieving,
His wyling glance, which woman's heart
Could fill with fond believing;

A voice that made his falsest vows
Seem breathings of pure heaven,

And get, from hearts which he had broke,
His injuries forgiven.

My false love came to me yestreen,
With words all steep'd in honey,

And kiss'd his babe, and said, Sweet wean,
Be as thy mother bonnie.

And out he pull'd a purse of gold,
With rings and rubies many—
I look'd at him, but could not speak,
Ye've broke the heart of Annie!

It's not thy gold and silver bright,
Thy words like dropping honey,
Thy silken scarfs, and bodice fine,
And caps all laced an' bonnie,
Can bring me back the peace I've tint,
Or heal the heart of Annie;

Speak to thy God of thy broken vows,

For thou hast broken many.

A WEARY LOT IS THINE.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
Α weary lot is thine!

To pull the thorn, thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine.
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,

A feather of the blue,

A doublet of the Lincoln green,

No more of me you knew,

My love!

No more of me you knew.

This morn is merry June, I trow ;

The rose is budding fain;

But it shall bloom in winter snow
Ere we two meet again.

He turned his charger as he spake,
Upon the river shore;

[blocks in formation]
« ПретходнаНастави »