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Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave Those everblooming sweets, which from

the store

Of Nature fair Imagination culls,

To charm th' enliven'd soul! What though not all

Of mortal offspring can attain the height
Of envied life; though only few possess
Patrician treasures, or imperial state:
Yet Nature's care to all her children just,
With richer treasures and an ampler state
Endows at large whatever happy man
Will deign to use them. His the city's

pomp, The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns The princely dome, the column, and the arch,

The breathing marbles, and the sculptur'd gold,

Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim,

His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the Spring

Distils her dew, and from the silken gem Its lucid leaves unfolds; for him the hand Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch With blooming gold, and blushes like the

morn.

Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wing;

And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,

And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze

Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes

The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain From all the tenants of the warbling shade

Ascend, but whence his bosom can partake

Fresh pleasure unreproved.

I lean'd my back unto an aik,

And thought it was a trusty tree,
But first it bow'd, and syne it brak',
Sae my true love did lightly me.

O waly, waly, but love is bonny,
A little time while it is new,
But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld,

And fades away like morning dew.
Oh! wherefore should I busk my head?
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forsook,

And says he'll never love me mair.

Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed,
The sheets shall ne'er be fil'd by me,
Saint Anton's well shall be my drink,
Since my true love's forsaken me.
Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,

And shake the green leaves off the tree? Oh, gentle death! when wilt thou come! For of my life I am weary.

'Tis not the frost that freezes fell,

Nor blowing snows inclemency; 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,

But my love's heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town,

We were a comely sight to see; My love was clad in the black velvet, And I mysel' in cramasie.

But had I wist before I kiss'd

That love had been so ill to win,
I'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold,
And pinn'd it with a silver pin.
And oh! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse's knee,
And I mysel' were dead and gane,

Wi' the green grass growing over me!

[ANONYMOUS. 1720.]

WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY.

O WALY, waly up the bank,

And waly, waly down the brae, And waly, waly yon burn-side,

Where I and my love wont to gae.

[ANONYMOUS. 1720.]

LADY ANNE BOTHWELL'S

LAMENT.

BALOW, my babe! lie still and sleep,
It grieves me sore to hear thee weep:
If thou'lt be silent, I'll be glad,
Thy mourning makes my heart full sad.
Balow, my babe! thy mother's joy!
Thy father bred me great annoy.

Balow, my babe! lie still and sleep, It grieves me sore to hear thee

weep

Balow, my darling! sleep awhile,
And when thou wak'st then sweetly
smile;

But smile not as thy father did,
To cozen maids; nay, God forbid !
For in thine eye his look I see,
The tempting look that ruin'd me.
Balow, my babe, &c.

When he began to court my love,
And with his sugar'd words to move,
His tempting face, and flatt'ring cheer,
That time to me did not appear;
But now I see that cruel he
Cares neither for his babe nor me.

Balow, my babe, &c.

Farewell, farewell, thou falsest youth
That ever kiss a woman's mouth!
Let never any after me
Submit unto thy courtesy:
For, if they do, oh! cruel thou
Wilt her abuse, and care not how.
Balow, my babe, &c.

I was too cred'lous at the first
To yield thee all a maiden durst:
Thou swore for ever true to prove,
Thy faith unchang'd, unchang'd thy love;
But quick as thought the change is
wrought,

Thy love's no more, thy promise nought.
Balow, my babe, &c.

I wish I were a maid again,

From young men's flattery I'd refrain;
For now unto my grief I find
They all are perjur'd and unkind:
Bewitching charms bred all my harms,
Witness my babe lies in my arms.

Balow, my babe, &c.

I take my fate from bad to worse, That I must needs be now nurse, And lull my young son on my lap! From me, sweet orphan, take the pap. Balow, my child! thy mother mild Shall wail as from all bliss exiled. Balow, my babe, &c.

Balow, my babe! weep not for me, Whose greatest grief's for wronging thee,

Nor pity her deserved smart

Who can blame none but her fond heart;

For, too soon trusting latest finds
With fairest tongues are falsest minds.
Balow, my babe, &c.

Balow, my babe! thy father's fled, When he the thriftless son has play'd: Of vows and oaths forgetful, he Preferr'd the wars to thee and me; But now perhaps thy curse and mine Make him eat acorns with the swine. Balow, my babe, &c.

But curse not him; perhaps now he,
Stung with remorse, is blessing thee:
Perhaps at death, for who can tell
Whether the Judge of heaven and hell,
By some proud foe has struck the blow,
And laid the dear deceiver low?
Balow, my babe, &c.

I wish I were into the bounds,

Where he lies smother'd in his wounds, Repeating, as he pants for air,

My name, whom once he call'd his fair!

No woman's yet so fiercely set,
But she'll forgive, tho' not forget.
Balow, my babe, &c.

If linen lacks, for my love's sake.
Then quickly to him would I make
My smock, once for his body meet,
And wrap him in that winding-sheet.
Ah me! how happy had I been,
If he had ne'er been wrapp'd therein.
Balow, my babe, &c.

Balow, my babe! I'll weep for thee;
Tho' soon, alack, thou'lt weep for me!
Thy griefs are growing to a sum,
God grant thee patience when they

come:

Born to sustain thy mother's shame
A hapless fate, a bastard's name.

Balow, my babe! lie still and sleep,
It grieves me sore to hear thee

weep.

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"Sweet smells the birk, green grows,

green grows the grass, Yellow on Yarrow braes the gowan, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet is the wave of Yarrow flowan. "Flows Yarrow sweet? as 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.

"Fair was thy love, fair, fair indeed thy love,

In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter; Tho' he was fair, and well belov'd again, Than me he never lov'd thee better.

"Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride,

Busk ye, then busk, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed,

"What's yonder floats on the ueful, And think nae mair on the braes of

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