When I see the plover flee,

O'er the Caerlock wheeling, Then I trow some bonnie lad Is coming to my dwelling. Ohon, orie, &c.

Come awa, come awa,

Herd, or hind, or boatman laddie;

I hae cow, kid, an' ewe,

Gowd and gear, to gain you.

Ohon, orie, &c.

My wee cot is blest an' happy,
Oh, its neat and cleanly;
Sweet's the brier blooms beside it,
Kind's the heart that's lonely."
Ohon, orie, &c.

THE EVENING STAR.

DR. JOHN LEYDEN died 1811.

How sweet thy modest light to view,

Fair star! to love and lovers dear;

While trembling on the falling dew, Like beauty shining through the tear;

Or hanging o'er that mirror-stream

To mark each image trembling there, Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam To see thy lovely face so fair.

Though, blazing o'er the arch of night,
The moon thy timid beams outshine
As far as thine each starry light-
Her rays can never vie with thine.

Thine are the soft enchanting hours
When twilight lingers on the plain,
And whispers to the closing flow'rs,
That soon the sun will rise again.

Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland
As music, wafts the lover's sigh;
And bids the yielding heart expand
In love's delicious ecstasy.

Fair star! though I be doom'd to prove

That rapture's tears are mix'd with pain;

Ah! still I feel 'tis sweet to love,

But sweeter to be loved again.

WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST?

SIR WALTER SCOTT, born 1771, died 1832. From "Marmion."

WHERE shall the lover rest,

Whom the fates sever

From his true maiden's breast,

Parted for ever?

Where through groves deep and high

Sounds the far billow,

Where early violets die

Under the willow.

Eleu loro.

Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day,
Cool streams are laving;
There, while the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving
There thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted for ever,

Never again to wake,

Never, oh, never!

Eleu loro.

Never, oh, never!

Where shall the traitor rest,

He the deceiver,

Who could win maiden's breast,
Ruin, and leave her?

In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle

With groans of the dying.
Eleu loro.

There shall he be lying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap

O'er the false hearted;

His warm blood the wolf shall lap
Ere life be parted;
Shame and dishonour sit

By his grave ever;
Blessing shall hallow it—
Never, oh, never!

Eleu loro.
Never, oh, never!

THE CAPTIVE HUNTSMAN.

SIR WALTER SCOTT. From the "Lady of the Lake."

My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
My idle greyhound loathes his food,
My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrall.

I wish I were as I have been,
Hunting the hart in forests green,
With bended bow and bloodhound free,
For that's the life is meet for me.

I hate to learn the ebb of time
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,
Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl
Inch after inch along the wall.
The lark was wont my matin ring,
The sable rook my vespers sing;
These towers, although a king's they be,
Have not a hall of joy for me.

No more at dawning morn I rise,
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
Drive the fleet deer the forest through,
And homeward wend with evening dew ;
A blythesome welcome blythely meet,
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the eve on wing of glee—
That life is lost to love and me.

HE IS GONE ON THE MOUNTAIN.

SIR WALTER SCOTT. From the "Lady of the Lake."

He is gone on the mountain,

He is lost to the forest,

Like a summer dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.

The font, re-appearing,

From the rain-drops shall borrow;

But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary;

But the voice of the weeper

Wails manhood in glory.

The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are searest;
But our flower was in flushing

When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi,
Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever!

JOCK O' HAZELDEAN.

SIR WALTER SCOTT. Modernised from the ancient ballad of " Jock o' Hazelgreen."

"A chain o' gold ye sall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair,

Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
Nor palfrey fresh and fair;