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Has the morning lark a throat
Sounding sweeter than her note ?
Who e'er knew the like before thee?
They who knew the nymph that bore thee.

From thy pastime and thy toys,
From thy harmless cares and joys,
Give me now a moment's time :
When thou shalt attain thy prime,
And thy bosom feel desire,
Love the likeness of thy sire,
One ordained through life to prove
Still thy glory, still thy love.
Like thy sister, and like thee,
Let thy nurtured daughters be :
Semblance of the fair who bore thee,
Trace the pattern set before thee.
Where the Liffy meets the main,
Has thy sister heard my strain :
From the Liffy to the Thames,
Minstrel echoes, sing their names,
Wafting to the willing ear
Many a cadence sweet to hear,
Smooth as gently breathing gales
O'er the ocean and the vales,
While the vessel calmly glides
O'er the level glassy tides,
While the summer flowers are springing,
And the new-fledged birds are singing.

Ambrose Philips.

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CLVII

THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE.

And are ye sure the news is true ?

And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o wark ?

Ye jades, lay by your wheel ;

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Is this the time to spin a thread,

When Colin's at the door?
Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,

And see him come ashore.
For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a';
There's little pleasure in the house,

When our gudeman's awa'.
And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop's satin gown ;
For I maun tell the bailie's wife

That Colin's in the town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on,

My stockins pearly blue ;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,

For he's baith leal and true.
Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,

Put on the muckle pot ;
Gie little Kate her button gown,

And Jock his Sunday coat ;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,

Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's been long awa'.
There's twa fat hens upo' the coop

Been fed this month and mair ;
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,

That Colin weel may fare;
And spread the table neat and clean,

Gar ilka thing look braw,
For wha can tell how Colin fared

When he was far awa'?
Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,

His breath like caller air;

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His very foot has music in't
As he comes up the stair

46 And will I see his face again ?

And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi’ the thought,

In troth I'm like to greet !
If Colin's weel, and weel content,

45 I hae nae mair to crave : And gin I live to keep him sae,

I'm blest aboon the lave : And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak?

50 I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,

In troth I'm like to greet.
For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a';
There's little pleasure in the house,

55 When our gudeman's awa'.

William Julius Mickle.

CLVIII

THE BANKS OF DOON.

Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fair!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu' o' care !

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Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,
That sings upon the bough;
Thou minds me o' the happy days
When my fause Luve was true.
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o' my fate.

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Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o’ its love;
And sae did I o mine.

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Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Frae aff its thorny tree ;
And my fause luver staw the rose,
But left the thorn wi' me.

Robert Burns.

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CLIX

TO THE RIVER LODON.

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Ah! what a weary race my feet have run,
Since first I trod thy banks with alders crowned,
And thought my way was all through fairy ground,
Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun;
Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun !
While pensive Memory traces back the round
Which fills the varied interval between,
Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene.
Sweet native stream ! those skies and suns so pure
No more return, to cheer my evening road;
Yet still one joy remains—that not obscure,
Nor useless, all my vacant days have flowed,
From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature,
Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestowed.

Thomas Warton.

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CLX

THE BRAES OF YARROW.

A. ' Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride,

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow;
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride,
And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow.'

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B. “Where gat ye that bonnie, bonnie bride?

5 Where gat ye that winsome marrow ?' A. 'I gat her where I dare na weel be seen,

Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.
“Weep not, weep not, my bonnie, bonnie bride,
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow;
Nor let thy heart lament to leave

Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.'
B. “Why does she weep, thy bonnie, bonnie bride?

Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow ?
And why daur ye nae mair weel be seen

15 Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow?' A. ‘Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,

Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow,
And lang maun I nae mair weel be seen
Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.

For she has tint her lover, lover dear,
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow;
And I ha'e slain the comeliest swain
That e'er pu’ed birks on the braes of Yarrow.
'Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, reid?

25 Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholeous weeds, Hung on the bonnie birks of Yarrow ? “What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flood? What's yonder floats ? Oh dule and sorrow! 30 Oh ! 'tis the comely swain I slew Upon the duleful braes of Yarrow! "Wash, oh, wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, His wounds in tears, with dule and sorrow, And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,

35 And lay him on the braes of Yarrow !

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