BONNIE LADY ANN.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, born 1784, died 1842. From "Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song."

THERE'S kames o' hinnie 'tween my luve's lips,

And gowd amang her hair;

Her breists are lapt in a holy veil,

Nae mortal een keek there.

What lips daur kiss, or what hand daur touch,

Or what arm o' luve daur span,

The hinnie lips, the creamy lufe,
Or the waist o' Lady Ann?

She kisses the lips o' her bonnie red rose,

Wat wi' the blobs o' dew;

But nae gentle lip nor semple lip

Maun touch her ladie mou.

But a broider'd belt, wi' a buckle o' gowd,

Her jimpy waist maun span;

Oh, she's an armfu' fit for heaven

My bonnie Lady Ann!

Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers

Tied up wi' siller thread,

And comely sits she in the midst,

Men's longing een to feed.

She waves the ringlets frae her cheek

Wi' her milky, milky hand;

And her every look beams wi' grace divine,

My bonnie Lady Ann.

The mornin' clud is tasselt wi' gowd,

Like my luve's broider'd cap;

And on the mantle that my luve wears

Is many a gowden drap.

Her bonnie ee-bree's a holy arch,

Cast by nae earthly han';

And the breath o' heaven is atween the lips

O' my bonnie Lady Ann.

I wonderin' gaze on her stately steps,
And I beet a hopeless flame;

To my luve, alas! she mauna stoop,
It wad stain her honour'd name.

My een are bauld, they dwall on a place
Where I daurna mint my hand;

But I water and tend and kiss the flowers my bonnie Lady Ann.

I am but her father's gardener lad,
And puir, puir is my fa';

My auld mither gets my wee wee fee,
Wi' fatherless bairnes twa.

My lady comes, my lady gaes
Wi' a fu' and kindly han';

Oh, their blessin' maun mix wi' my luve,
And fa' on Lady Ann!

THE SPRING OF THE YEAR.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. From "Cromek's Remains."

GONE were but the winter cold,
And gone were but the snaw,
I could sleep in the wild woods,
Where primroses blaw.

Cold's the snaw at my head,
And cold at my feet;

And the finger of death's at my een,
Closing them to sleep.

Let none tell my father,

Or my mother sa dear-
I'll meet them both in heaven
At the spring of the year.

OUR LADYE'S BLESSED WELL.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

THE moon is gleaming far and near,
The stars are streaming free;

And cold comes down the evening dew my sweet babe and me.

On

There is a time for holy song,
An hour for charm and spell,

And now's the time to bathe my babe
In our blessed Ladye's well.

Oh, thou wert born as fair a babe
As light e'er shone aboon,
And fairer than the gowan is,
Born in the April moon;
First like the lily pale ye grew,
Syne like the violet wan;
As in the sunshine dies the dew,
So faded my fair Ann.

Was it a breath of evil wind

That harm'd thee, lovely child? Or was't the fairy's charmèd touch That all thy bloom defiled? I've watched thee in the mirk midnicht, And watch'd thee in the day,

And sung our Ladye's sacred song,

To keep the elves away.

The moon is sitting on the hill,
The nicht is in its prime,

The owl doth chase the bearded bat,
The mark of witching time;
And o'er the seven sister-stars
A silver cloud is drawn,
And pure the blessed water is
To bathe thee, gentle Ann.

On a fair sea thy father sails
Among the spicy isles :

He thinks on thee, he thinks on me,

And as he thinks he smiles;

And sings, while he his white sail trims,

And severs swift the sea,

About his Anna's sunny locks

And of her bricht blue ee.

O blessed fountain, give her back
The brightness of her brow!
O blessed water, bid her cheeks
Like summer roses glow!
'Tis a small gift, thou blessed well,

To a thing divine as thee;

But kingdoms to a mother's heart,
Fu' dear is Ann to me.

THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD, MY JEANNIE.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. From "Cromek's Remains."

THOU hast sworn by thy God, my Jeannie,
By that pretty white hand o' thine,
And by a' the lowing stars in heaven,
That thou wad aye be mine;

And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeannie,
And by that kind heart o' thine,

By a' the stars sown thick ower heaven,
That thou wad aye be mine.

Then foul fa' the hands that loose sic bands,
And the heart that wad part sic love;
But there's nae hand can loose my band
But the finger o' God above.

Though the wee, wee cot maun be my bield,
And my claithing e'er sae mean,

I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' luve,
Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean.

Her white arm wad be a pillow for me,

Fu' safter than the down,

And luve wad winnow ower us his kind, kind wings,

And sweetly I'll sleep an' soun'.

Come here to me, thou lass o' my luve,

Come here and kneel wi' me;

The morn is fu' o' the presence o' God,
And I canna pray without thee.

The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers, The wee birds sing kindlie an' hie;

Our gudeman leans owre his kale-yard dyke,

And a blythe auld bodie is he.

The Beuk maun be taen whan the carle comes hame

Wi' the holie psalmodie,

And thou maun speak o' me to thy God,
And I will speak o' thee.

UPON a simmer afternoon,

A wee before the sun gade down,

My lassie, in a braw new gown,

Cam' o'er the hills to Gowrie.

The rose-bud, tinged with morning show'r,
Blooms fresh within the sunny bow'r;
But Katie was the fairest flower
That ever bloom'd in Gowrie.

Nae thought had I to do her wrang,
But round her waist my arms I flang,
And said, "My dearie, will ye gang
To see the Carse o' Gowrie?

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