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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,
A 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;

He

gave

his bridle reins a shake,

Said, Adieu! for evermore,

My love!

And, adieu, for evermore.

WAKEN, LORDS AND LADIES GAY.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

On the mountain dawns the day;
All the jolly chase is here,

With hawk and horse and hunting spear.
Hounds are in their couples yelling,

Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling;
Merrily, merrily, mingle they-

Waken, lords and ladies gay!

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

The mist has left the mountain gray;
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;
And foresters have busy been
To track the buck in thicket green :
Now we come to chant our lay-
Waken, lords and ladies gay!

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the greenwood haste away:
We can show you where he lies-
Fleet of foot and tall of size;

We can show the marks he made

When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed;
You shall see him brought to bay:
Waken, lords and ladies gay!

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Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them, youth and mirth and glee
Run a course as well as we.

Time, stern huntsman! who can balk?
Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk:
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay.

MILES COLVINE.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

O mariner, O mariner,

When will our gallant men

Make our cliffs and woodlands ring
With their homeward hail agen?
Full fifteen paced the stately deck,
And fifteen stood below,

And maidens waved them from the shore
With hands more white than snow;
All underneath them flash'd the wave,
The sun laugh'd out aboon-
Will they come bounding homeward

By the waning of yon moon?

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