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[OLD BALLAD.] WALY, waly, up the bank,
O waly, waly, doun the brae, And waly, waly, yon burn-side,
Where I and my love were wont to gae! I lean'd my back unto an aik,
I thocht it was a trustie tree,
Sae my true love did lichtlie me.
O waly, waly, but love be bonnie
A little time while it is new;
And fadeth awa' like the morning dew.
hair? For my true love has me forsook, And says
he'll never lo'e me mair.
Noo Arthur's Seat sall be my bed,
The sheets sall ne'er be press’d by me; Saint Anton's well sall be my drink;
Since my true love's forsaken me. Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves off the tree ? O gentle death when wilt thou come ?
For of my life I am wearie.
'Tis not the frost that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie,
'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry; love's heart grown
cauld to me. When we cam' in by Glasgow toun,
We were a comely sicht to see;
An' I mysel' in cramasie.
But had I wist before I kiss'd
That love had been so ill to win,
And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin.
And set upon the nurse's knee;
And the green grass growing over me !
[HYMN TO DIANA.]
UEEN and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair
State in wonted manner keep : Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright! Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heav'n to clear, when day did close : Bless us then with wishèd sight, Goddess excellently bright!
· Cramasie, cramoisie, crimson.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal shining quiver ;
Space to breathe, how short soever:
(COMPOSED AT DUNOLLIE CASTLE IN THE BAY
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.
T the corner of Wood Street, when daylight
appears, Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung
three years :
Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.
'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail ; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but they
fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade: The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes !
THE PAINS OF SLEEP.
limbs I lay,
But yester-night I pray'd aloud