GENTLE HUGH HERRIES. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Go seek in the wild glen Where streamlets are falling, Go seek on the lone hill Where curlews are calling, Go seek when the clear stars Shine down without number, For there will ye find him They sought in the wild glen-- 'Mang lang lady-bracken; Yon green hill I'll give thee, This bold traitor's lying O make me of Nithsdale's Is that worth one smile of My gentle Hugh Herries? The white bread, the sweet milk, I clasp'd and I wound him; They rein'd their proud war-steeds, Fair maidens went weeping; 'Mang banks of blae-berries, I dwell with my loved one, My gentle Hugh Herries. THE SHEPHERD'S SON.. JOANNA BAILLIE. The gowan glitters on the sward, And Colley on my plaid keeps ward, Oh no! sad and slow! I hear nae welcome sound, The shadow of our trysting bush My sheep-bell tinkles from the west, Ah no! sad and slow! The shadow lingers still, And like a lanely ghaist I stand I hear below the water roar, VOL. IV. Oh no! sad and slow! These are nae sounds for me; R The shadow of our trysting bush I coft yestreen frae chapman Tam To tye it round her brow. Oh no! sad and slow! The time it winna pass; The shadow of that weary thorn Is tether'd on the grass. Oh! now I see her on the way! She's past the witches' knowe; She's climbing up the brownie's braeMy heart is in a lowe! Oh no! 'tis not so! 'Tis glaumrie I hae seen; The shadow of the hawthorn bush Will move nae mair till e'en. My book of grace I'll try to read, When Colley barks I'll raise my head, And find her on the hill! Oh, no! sad and slow! The time will ne'er be gane; The shadow of the trysting bush Is fix'd like ony stane. CARLE, NOW THE KING'S COME! SIR WALTER SCOTT. The news has flown frae mouth to mouth, Carle, now the King's come! Auld England held him lang and fast; But Scotland's turn is come at last Carle, now the King's come! Auld Reikie, in her rokela gray, Thought never to have seen the day; He's been a weary time away But, Carle, now the King's conie! She's skirling frae the Castle-hill; The Carline's voice is grown sae shrill Ye'll hear her at the Canon-mill, Carle, now the King's come! Up, bairns! she cries, baith grit and sma', Carle, now the King's come! |