WALY, WALY. [OLD BALLAD.] WALY, waly, up the bank, O waly, waly, doun the brae, And waly, waly, yon burn-side, Where I and my love were wont to gae! I lean'd my back unto an aik, I thocht it was a trustie tree, But first it bow'd and syne it brak',- O waly, waly, but love be bonnie Noo Arthur's Seat sall be my bed, The sheets sall ne'er be press'd by me; Saint Anton's well sall be my drink; Since my true love's forsaken me. Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves off the tree ? O gentle death when wilt thou come? For of my life I am wearie. 'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie, "Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry; But my love's heart grown cauld to me. When we cam' in by Glasgow toun, We were a comely sicht to see; My love was clad in the black velvet, An' I mysel' in cramasie.1 But had I wist before I kiss'd That love had been so ill to win, And I mysel' were dead and gane, Q [HYMN TO DIANA.] UEEN and huntress, chaste and fair, Seated in thy silver chair State in wonted manner keep : Earth, let not thy envious shade Heav'n to clear, when day did close : 1 Cramasie, cramoisie, crimson. Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal shining quiver; Space to breathe, how short soever : Goddess excellently bright! BEN JONSON. SONNET. EAGLES. (COMPOSED AT DUNOLLIE CASTLE IN THE BAY D' OF OBAN.) ISHONOUR'D Rock and Ruin! that, by Tyrannic, keep the Bird of Jove embarr'd His rank 'mong free-born creatures that live free, WORDSWORTH. THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. A T the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the Bird. 'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail ; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade: The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes! WORDSWORTH. R E THE PAINS OF SLEEP. RE on my bed my limbs I lay, It hath not been my use to pray In humble trust mine eye-lids close, No wish conceived, no thought exprest, A sense o'er all my soul imprest— But yester-night I pray'd aloud Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me : Sense of intolerable wrong, And whom I scorn'd, those only strong! |