Let Athole boast her birchen bowers, And Lomond of her isles so green, And Windermere her woodland shores, Our Ettrick boasts a sweeter scene. For there the evening twilight swells Wi' many a wild and melting strain; And there the pride of beauty dwells, The bonnie lass of Deloraine.

If heaven shall keep her ay as good
And bonnie as she wont to be,
The world may into Ettrick crowd,
And nature's first perfection see.
Glencoe has drawn the wanderer's eye,
And Staffa on the western main;
These natural wonders ne'er can vie
Wi' the bonnie lass of Deloraine.

May health still bless her beauteous face, And round her brow may honour twine, And heaven preserve that breast in peace, Where meekness, love, and duty join!

But all her joys shall cheer my heart, And all her griefs shall give me pain; For never from my soul shall

part

The bonnie lass of Deloraine.

BRIGNAL BANKS.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

O Brignal banks are wild and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there,
Would grace a summer queen.
And as I rode by Dalton-hall,
Beneath the turret high,

A maiden on the castle wall
Was singing merrily,-

O Brignal banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green;
I'd rather rove with Edmund there
Than reign our English queen.

If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,
To leave both tower and town,
Thou first must guess what life lead we,
That dwell by dale and down.
And if thou canst that riddle read,

As read full well you may,

Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed

As blithe as queen of May.
Yet sung she, Brignal banks are fair,

And Greta woods are green:
I'd rather rove with Edmund there

Than reign our English queen.

I read you, by your bugle horn,
And by your palfrey good,
I read you for a ranger sworn,

To keep the king's green wood.
A ranger, lady, winds his horn,
And 'tis at peep of light:
His blast is heard at merry morn,
And mine at dead of night.
Yet sung she, Brignal banks are fair,
And Greta woods are gay;

I would I were with Edmund there,
To reign his queen of May!

With burnish'd brand and musquetoon,
So gallantly 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.
And O though Brignal banks be fair,
And Greta woods be gay;

Yet mickle must the maiden dare,
Would reign my queen of May!"

Maiden! a nameless life I lead,

A nameless death I'll die;

The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead, Were better mate than I!

And when I'm with my comrades met,
Beneath the greenwood bough,

What once we were we all forget,

Nor think what we are now.
Yet Brignal banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green;
And you may gather garlands there,
Would grace a summer queen.

LUCY'S FLITTIN'.

WALTER LAIDLAW.

"Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in, And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year,

That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in,

And left her auld master, and neibours sae dear. For Lucy had serv'd i' the glen a' the simmer;

She cam there afore the flow'r bloom'd on the pea ; An orphan was she, an' they had been gude till her, Sure that was the thing brought the tear in her ee.

She gaed by the stable, whare Jamie was stannin', Right sair was his kind heart the flittin' to see; Fare ye weel, Lucy! quo' Jamie, and ran in.

The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae her ee. As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' her flittin', Fare ye weel, Lucy! was ilka bird's sang;

She heard the craw sayin't, high on the tree sittin',

And robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang.

O what is't that pits my poor heart in a flutter?
And what gars the tear come sae fast to my ee?
If I was nae ettled to be onie better,

Then what gars me wish onie better to be?
I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither;
Nae mither nor frien' the poor lammie can see ;
I fear I hae left my bit heart a' thegither,

Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my ee.

Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon, The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie ga'e me: Yestreen when he ga'e me't, and saw I was sabbin', I'll never forget the wae blink o' his ee.

Tho' now he said naething, but Fare ye weel, Lucy! It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see: He could na say mair, but just Fare ye weel, Lucy! Yet that I will mind to the day that I die.

The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it's droukit ; The hare likes the brake, and the braird on the lee; But Lucy likes Jamie ;-she turn'd and she lookit ;

She thought the dear place she wad never mair see. Ah! weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless, And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn! His bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless,

Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return.