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No Will-o'-th-Wispe mislight thee, Nor snake nor slow-worme bite thee;

But on, on thy way,

Not making a stay, Since ghost there's none to affright


SHALL I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or my cheeks make pale with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads in May -

If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?

Let not the dark thee cumber,
What though the moon do slumber?

The starres of the night

Will lend thee their light, Like tapers cleare, without number. Then, Julia, let me wooe thee, Thus, thus to come unto me;

And when I shall meet

Thy silvery feet,
My soule I'll poure into thee.


Shall my foolish heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind;
Or a well disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature ?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,

If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?


He that loves a rosy cheek,

Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek

Fuel to maintain his fires;
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.
But a smooth and steadfast mind,

Gentle thoughts and calm desires, Hearts, with equal love combined,

Kindle never-dying fires. Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.


Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her merit's value known
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of Best;

If she seem not such to me,

What care I how good she be? 'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? Those that bear a noble mind Where they want of riches find, Think what with them they would

do Who without them dare to woo;

And unless that mind I see,

What care I though great she be?
Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;

For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?



Love is a sickness full of woes,

All remedies refusing; A plant that most with cutting grows, Most barren with best using.

Why so ? More we enjoy it, more it dies, If not enjoyed, it sighing cries

Heigh-ho! Love is a torment of the mind,

A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind
Not well, nor full, nor fasting.

Why so?
More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries



0, The days are gone, when Beauty


My heart's chain wove;
When my dream of life, from morn

till night,
Was love, still love.

New hope may bloom,

And days may come, Of milder, calmer beam; But there's nothing half so sweet in

life As love's young dream.


Through all the land of Xeres and

banks of Guadalquiver Rode forth bridegroom so brave as

he, so brave and lovely never. Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow,

of purple mixed with white, I guess 'twas wreathed by Zara,

whom he will wed to-night. Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the

golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and

gaze with all the town!”

THEKLA'S SONG. The clouds are flying, the woods are

sighing, A maiden is walking the grassy

shore, And as the wave breaks with might,

with might, She singeth aloud in the darksome


But a tear is in her troubled eye. For the world feels cold, and the

heart gets old, And reflects the bright aspect of

Nature no more;. Then take back thy child, holy Vir

gin, to thee! I have plucked the one blossom

that hangs on earth's tree, I have lived, and have loved, and die.

ANONYMOUS. Translated from Schiller.

The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her

cushion down, Nor came she to the window to gaze

with all the town; But though her eyes dwelt on her

knee, in vain her fingers strove, And though her needle pressed the

silk, no flower Xarifa wove; One bonny rose-bud she had traced

before the noise drew nigh That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow

drooping from her eye. “No, no!” she sighs — “bid me not

rise, nor lay my cushion down, To gaze upon Andalla with all the

gazing town!”


‘Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the

golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and

gaze with all the town! From gay guitar and violin the silver

notes are flowing, And the lovely lute doth speak be

tween the trumpet's lordly

blowing, And banners bright from lattice light

are waving everywhere, And the tall, tall plume of our cou

sin's bridegroom floats proudly

in the air. Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the

golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and

gaze with all the town! “ Arise, arise, Xarifa! I see Andal

la's faceHe bends him to the people with a

calm and princely grace;

“Why rise ye not. Xarifa - nor lay

your cushion down Why gaze ye not, Xarifa — with all

the gazing town? Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells,

and how the people cry: He stops at Zara's palace-gate — why

sit ye still, oh, why!” At Zara's gate stops Zara's

mate; in him shall I discover The dark-eyed youth pledged me his

truth with tears, and was my

lover! I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor

lay my cushion down, To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing town!”



YE banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and

fair, How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae weary, fu' o' care!

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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 forevermore, my love; And adieu forevermore.


Thy heart beats through thy rosy

liinbs, So gladly doth it stir; Thine eye in drops of gladness swims, I have bathed thee with the pleasant

myrrh; Thy locks are dripping balm; Thou shalt not wander hence to

night, I'll stay thee with my kisses. To-night the roaring brine Will rend thy golden tresses; The ocean with the morrow light Will be both blue and calm; And the billow will embrace thee

with a kiss as soft as mine. No western odors wander On the black and moaning sea, And when thou art dead, Leander, My soul must follow thee! Oh! go not yet, my love, Thy voice is sweet and low; The deep salt wave breaks in above Those marble steps below. The turret stairs are wet That lead into the sea. The pleasant stars have set: Oh! go not, go not yet, Or I will follow thee.



In the summer even,
While yet the dew was hoar,
I went plucking purple pansies,
Till my love should come to shore.

The fishing lights their dances
Were keeping out at sea,
And “Comc,” I sung, “my true love,
Come hasten home to me."

But the sea it fell a-moaning,
And the white gulls rocked thereon,

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• With burnished brand and muske

too, So gallanily you come, I read you for a bold Dragoon,

That lists the tuck of drum." . I list no more the tuck of drum,

No more the trumpet hear; But when the beetle sounds his hum,

My comrades take the spear.

With sour-featured Whigs the Grass

market was crammed, As if half the West had set tryst to

be hanged :

There was spite in each look, there

was fear in each ee, As they watched for the bonnets of

Bonny Dundee. These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits

and had spears, And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cava

liers; But they shrunk to close-heads, and

the causeway was free, At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny

Dundee. ** Away to the hills, to the caves, to

the rocks, – Ere I own an usurper, I'll couch

with the fox; And tremble false Whigs, in the

midst of your glee, You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me."


Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in

Glen Fruin, And Bannachars' groans to our

slogan replied; Glen Luss and Ross dhu, they are

smoking in ruin, And the best of Loch-Lomond lie

dead on her side. Widow and Saxon maid

Long shall lament our raid, Think of Clan-Alpine with fear

and with woe; Lennox and Leven-glen

Shake when they hear again, “Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho!


green Pine!

SONG OF CLAN-ALPINE. Hail to the Chief who in triumph

advances! Honored and blessed be the ever

green Pine! Long may the tree, in his banner

that glances,
Flourish, the shelter and grace of

our line!
Heaven send it happy dew,

Earth lend it sap anew,
Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly

to grow,
While every Ilighland glen

Sends our shout back again, “ Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho!


Row, vassals, row, for the pride of

the Highlands! Stretch to your oars for the everO that the rosebud that graces yon

islands Were wreathed in a garland around

him to twine!
O that some seedling gem,

Worthy such noble stem, Honored and blessed in their shadow

might grow! Loud should Clan-Alpine then

Ring from her deepmost glen, “ Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”



PIBROch of Donuil Dhu,

Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew,

Summon Clan Conuil. Come away, come away,

Hark to the summons ! Come in your war array,

Gentles and commons.

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by

the fountain, Blooming at Beltane, in winter to

fade; When the whirlwind has stripped

every leaf on the mountain, The more shall Cian-Alpine exult

in her shade.
Moored in the rifted rock,

Proof to the tempest's shoek,
Firmer he roots him the ruder it

blow: Menteith and Breadalbane, then,

Echo his praise again, " Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, lo!


Come from deep glen and

From mountain so rocky, The war-pipe and pennon

Are at Inverlochy. Come every hill-plaid,

And true heart that wears one; Come every steel blade,

And strong hand that bears one!

Leave untended the herd,

The flock without shelter;

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