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• What will ye say to your father dear

When ye gae hame at e'en?'
I'll say ye're lying at yon kirk style,

Where the grass grows fair and green.

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O no, O no, my brother dear,

O you must not say so;
But say that I'm gane to a foreign land,

Where nae man does me know.


When he sat in his father's chair

He grew baith pale and wan. • what blude's that upon your brow?

O dear son, tell to me.' • It is the blude o' my gude gray steed,

He wadna ride wi' me.'



• thy steed's blude was ne'er sae red,

Nor e'er sae dear to me:
O what blude's this upon your cheek?

O dear son, tell to me.'
• It is the blude of my greyhound,

He wadna hunt for me.'


• thy hound's blude was ne'er sae red,

Nor e'er sae dear to me :
O what blude's this upon your hand ?

O dear son, tell to me.'
" It is the blude of my gay gosshawk,

He wadna flee for me.'


• thy hawk's blude was ne'er sae red,

Nor e'er sae dear to me :
O what blude's this upon your dirk ?

Dear Willie, tell to me.'
. It is the blude of my ae brother,

O dule and wae is me!'


• what will ye say to your father,

Dear Willie, tell to me?' • I'll saddle my steed, and awa' I'll ride

To dwell in some far countrie.'


• when will ye come hame again,

Dear Willie, tell to me?'
When the sun and mune dance on yon green,

And that will never be.'

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She turned hersel right round about,

And her heart burst into three : My ae best son is deid and gane, And my tother ane I'll ne'er see.'




There were twa sisters lived in a bouir ;

Binnorie, O Binnorie;
The youngest o' them, oh, she was a flouir !

By the bonnie mill-dams o Binnorie.

There came a squire frae the west;
He lo’ed them baith, but the youngest best;


He gied the eldest a gay gowd ring ;
But he lo'ed the youngest abune a' thing.

He courted the eldest wi' broach and knife;
But he lo'ed the youngest as his life.


The eldest she was vexèd sair,
And sore envied her sister fair.

And it fell once upon a day,
The eldest to the youngest did say :



Oh, sister, come to the sea-strand,
And see our father's ships come to land.

She's ta’en her by the milk-white hand,
And led her down to the sea-strand.



The youngest sat upon a stane ;
The eldest came and pushed her in.
“Oh, sister, sister, lend me your hand,
And you shall be heir of half my land.'
"Oh, sister, I'll not reach my hand,
And I'll be heir of all your land.

Shame fa' the hand that I should take !
It twinned me and my world's maik.'
“Oh, sister, reach me but your glove,
And you shall be sweet William's love.'
“Sink on, nor hope for hand or glove,
And sweet William shall better be my love.





• Your cherry cheeks and yellow hair
Had gar'd me gang maiden evermair.'
First she sank, and syne she swam,
Until she cam to Tweed mill-dam.
The miller's dauchter was baking breid,
And gaed for water as she had need.


Oh, father, father, in our mill-dam
There's either a mermaid or a milk-white swan.'

The miller quickly drew his dam;
And there he fand a drowned woman.


You couldna see her yellow hair,
For gowd and pearls that were sae rare.

You couldna see her middle sma',
Her gowden girdle was sae braw.


You couldna see her lilie feet,
Her gowden fringes were sae deep.
You couldna see her fingers sma',
Wi' diamond rings they were covered a'.

Sair will they be, whae'er they be,
The hearts that live to weep for thee !'


Then by there cam a harper fine,
That harpèd to the king at dine.

And, when he looked that lady on,
He sighed, and made a heavy moan.
He has ta’en three locks o' her yellow hair,
And wi' thenı strung his harp sae fair.
And he brought the harp to her father's hall,
And there the court was assembled all.



He laid his harp upon a stone,
And straight it began to play alone.

O yonder sits my father, the king !
And yonder sits my mother, the queen !
And yonder stands my brother Hugh,
And by him my William sweet and true!'
But the last tune that the harp played then,

Binnorie, O Binnorie,
Was, “Woe to my sister, false Helen!
By the bonny mill-dams o Binnorie.

A non.


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Lady, that in the prime of earliest youth
Wisely hast shunned the broad way and the green,
And with those few art eminently seen,
That labour up the hill of heavenly truth ;
The better part with Mary and with Ruth
Chosen thou hast ; and they that overween,
And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen,
No anger find in thee, but pity' and ruth.
Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends
To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light,
And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure
Thou, when the Bridegroom with his feastful friends
Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night,
Hast gained thy entrance, Virgin wise and pure.

John Milton.





How wisely Nature did decree,
With the same eyes to weep and see !
That, having viewed the object vain,
They might be ready to complain.
And, since the self-deluding sight
In a false angle takes each height,
These tears, which better measure all,
Like watery lines and plummets fall.
Two tears, which sorrow long did weigh
Within the scales of either eye,
And then paid out in equal poise,
Are the true price of all my joys.


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