My kurtch I put upo' my head, I trow my heart was dough and wae, UNKNOWN. GLENLOGIE. THREESCORE o' nobles rade up the king's ha', But bonnie Glenlogie's the flower o' them a', Wi' his milk-white steed and his bonnie black e'e, The next line that he read, the tear blindit his e'e; But the last line that he read, he gart the table flee. "Gar saddle the black horse, gar saddle the brown; Gar saddle the swiftest steed e'er rade frae a town": But lang ere the horse was drawn and brought to the green, O, bonnie Glenlogie was twa mile his lane. When he came to Glenfeldy's door, little mirth was there; Bonnie Jean's mother was tearing her hair. "Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, ye 're welcome," said she, "Ye 're welcome, Glenlogie, your Jeanie to see. Glenlogie, dear mither, Glenlogie for Pale and wan was she, when Glenlogie me!" gaed ben, But red and rosy grew she, whene'er he sat down; She turned awa'' her head, but the smile was in her e'e, "O, binna feared, mither, I'll maybe no dee." "Me haud my tongue for you, Guidwife! I'll be maister o' this house, I saw it as plain as een could see, "If you're the maister o' the house, An' I ken best what 's i' the house, "Weel, weel, Guidwife, gae mak the brose, While John sat toastin' his taes. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. [1751-1816.] HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD HAD I a heart for falsehood framed, To you no soul shall bear deceit, Your charms would make me true: No stranger offer wrong; But friends in all the aged you 'll meet, For when they learn that you have blest For friends in all the aged you 'll meet, THOMAS CHATTERTON. [1752-1770.] THE MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA. O, SING unto my roundelay! O, drop the briny tear with me! Dance no more at holiday, Like a running river be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as the summer snow, Gone to his death-bed, Sweet his tongue as throstle's note, Gone to his death-bed, Hark! the raven flaps his wing Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. See the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true-love's shroud, Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Here, upon my true-love's grave, All the sorrows of a maid. Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. With my hands I'll bind the briers Round his holy corse to gre; Gone to his death-bed, Come with acorn cup and thorn, Gone to his death-bed, GEORGE CRABBE. [1754-1832.] ISAAC ASHFORD. NEXT to these ladies, but in naught allied, A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. Noble he was, contemning all things mean, A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast No envy stung, no jealousy distressed (Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind To miss one favor which their neighbors find); Yet far was he from stoic pride removed; He felt humanely, and he warmly loved. I marked his action when his infant died, And his old neighbor for offence was tried; The still tears, stealing down that furrowed cheek, Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak. If pride were his, 't was not their vulgar pride Who, in their base contempt, the great |