And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop's satin gown;

For I maun tell the baillie'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;

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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.

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Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,

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?
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,

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When our gudeman's awa'.

William Julius Mickle.

CLIV

THE BANKS OF DOON.

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,

How can ye bloom sae fair!

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings beside thy mate;

ΙΟ

For sae I sat, and sae I sang,

And wist na o' my fate.

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.

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.

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Robert Burns.

CLV

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 of the braes of Yarrow.'

B. 'Where gat ye that bonnie, bonnie bride,

Where gat ye that winsome marrow?'
A. 'I gat her where I daurna 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 well be seen
Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow?'

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

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ΙΟ

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'For she has tint her lover dear, Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow;

And I ha'e slain the comeliest swain

That ever pu'ed birks on the braes of Yarrow.

"Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, reid?

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Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow?

And why yon melancholious weeds,

Hung on the bonnie birks of Yarrow?

'What's yonder floats on the rueful flood?

What's yonder floats? Oh, dule and sorrow!

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Oh! 'tis the comely swain I slew

Upon the duleful banks of Yarrow!

'Wash, oh, wash his wounds in tears,
His wounds in tears of dule and sorrow,
And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,
And lay him on the banks of Yarrow!

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'Then build, then build, ye sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb wi' sorrow,
And weep around in waeful wise,
His helpless fate on the braes of Yarrow.

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'Curse ye, curse ye his useless shield,
The arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierced his breast,
His comely breast, on the braes of Yarrow.
'Did I not warn thee not to love,
And warn from fight? but, to my sorrow,
Too rashly bold, a stronger arm

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Thou met'st, and fell on the braes of Yarrow.

'Sweet smells the birk; green grows the grass, Yellow on Yarrow's braes the gowan,

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Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowin'.

'Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet flows Tweed,

As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,
As sweet smells on its braes the birk,
The apple from its rocks as mellow.

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'Fair was thy love! fair, fair indeed thy love!
In flowery bands thou didst him fetter;
Though he was fair, and well-beloved again,
Than me he never loved thee better.

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'Busk ye, then, busk, my bonnie, bonnie bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed,
And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow."

C. How can I busk, a bonnie, bonnie bride,
How can I busk, a winsome marrow?

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How lo'e him on the banks of Tweed,

That slew my Love on the braes of Yarrow?

'Oh, Yarrow fields! may never rain,
Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover,
For there was basely slain my Love,
My Love, as he had not been a lover!

The boy put on his robes of green,
His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewin':
Ah, wretched me! I little, little knew,
He was in these to meet his ruin.

'The boy took out his milk-white steed, Unmindful of my dule and sorrow;

But, ere the toofal of the night,

He lay a corpse on the banks of Yarrow.

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'Much I rejoiced that waeful day,

I sang, my voice the woods returning;

But lang ere night the spear was flown

That slew my Love, and left me mourning.

'What can my barbarous father do,

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But with his cruel rage pursue me?

My lover's blood is on thy spear;

How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?

'My happy sisters may be proud;
With cruel and ungentle scoffing

May bid me seek on Yarrow's braes
My lover nailèd in his coffin.

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