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For my true Love has me forsook,

And says he 'll never loe me mair.

Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed ;

The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me : Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,

Since my true Love has forsaken me. Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw

And shake the green leaves aff the tree? O gentle Death, when wilt thou come ?

For of my life I am wearíe.

'T is not the frost that freezes fell,

Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie ; 'T is not sic cauld that makes me cry,

But my Love's heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town

We were a comely sight to see;
My Love was clad in the black velvét,

And I mysell in cramasie.

But had I wist, before I kist,

That love had been sae ill to win;
I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd

And pinn'd it with a siller pin.
And, O! if my young babe were born,

And set upon the nurse's knee,
And I mysell were dead and gane,
And the green grass growing over me!





WISH I were where Helen lies :

Night and day on me she cries ; O that I were where Helen lies

On fair Kirconnell lea!

Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,

And died to succour me !

O think na but my heart was sair

my Love dropt down and spak nae mair! I laid her down wi' meikle care

On fair Kirconnell lea.

As I went down the water-side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide,

On fair Kirconnell lea;

I lighted down my sword to draw,
I hackéd him in pieces sma',
I hacked him in pieces sma',

For her sake that died for me.

O Helen fair, beyond compare !
I'll make a garland of thy hair
Shall bind my heart for evermair

Until the day I die.

O that I were where Helen lies !
Night and day on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,

Says, 'Haste and come to me!'

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste !
If I were with thee, I were blest,
Where thou lies low and takes thy rest

On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding sheet drawn ower my een,
And I in Helen's arms lying,

On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish I were where Helen lies :
Night and day on me she cries;
And I am weary of the skies,

Since my love died for me.




ASI heard work corbies making a mane ;

The tane unto the t’ other say,
“Where sall we gang and dine to-day?'

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- In behint yon auld fail dyke,
I wot there lies a new-slain Knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there,
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.

His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady 's ta’en another mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.

"Ye 'll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I'll pick out his bonny blue een :
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.

Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken where he is gane ;
O’er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.'





AIR pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do


fall so fast ?
Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awhile
To blush and gently smile,


at last.

What, were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,

And so to bid good-night? 'T was pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth,

And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we

May read how soon things have

Their end, though ne'er so brave : And after they have shown their pride

Like you, awhile, they glide

Into the grave.

R. Herrick




AIR Daffodils, we weep to see
You haste

away so soon :
As yet the early-rising Sun
Has not attain'd his noon.

Stay, stay,
Until the hasting day

Has run
But to the even-song ;
And, having pray'd together, we

Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,

We have as short a Spring ;
As quick a growth to meet decay
As you, or any thing.

We die,
your hours do, and dry

Like to the Summer's rain ;
Or as the pearls of morning's dew
Ne'er to be found again.

R. Herrick

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