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Though colic or the heart-scad teaze us,
Or any inward dwam should seize us,
It masters a' sic fell diseases,
That would ye spulzie,
And brings them to a cannie crisis
Wi' little tulzie.
Wer't na for it the bonnie lasses
Would glow'r nae mair in keeking glasses
And soon tine dint o' a' the graces
That aft conveen
In gleefu' looks and bonnie faces,
To catch our een.
The fairest then might die a maid,
And Cupid quit his shooting trade,
For wha through clarty masquerade
Could then discover
Whether the features under shade
Were worth a lover?
CCXLVI. LADY ANN BARNARD, 1750-1825.
When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye a' at hame,
And a' the warld to sleep are gane;
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
When my gudeman lies sound by me.
Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and socht me for his bride;
But saving a croun, he had naething else beside:
To mak that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;
And the croun and the pund they were baith for me.
He hadna been awa a week but only twa,
When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was stown
My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the sea,
And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me.
My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;
I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I couldna win;
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in
Said, "Jennie, for their sakes, will you marry me!"
My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back;
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wreck:
The ship it was a wreck,-why didna Jenny dee?
Or why do I live to say, "Wae's me?"
My father argued sair; my mother didna speak;
But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break:
Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart was in
And so auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me.
I hadna been a wife a week but only four,
When mournful as I sat on the stane at the door,
I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think it he,
Till he said, "I'm come back, my love, for to marry thee."
Oh, sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away:
I wish that I were dead! but I'm no like to dee;
And why do I live to say,
gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be,
For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me.
CCXLVII. CURRAN, 1750-1817.
THE POOR MAN'S LABour.
My mother sighed, the stream of pain
Flowed fast and chilly o'er her brow,
My father prayed, nor prayed in vain ;
Sweet mercy cast a glance below.
"My husband dear," the sufferer cried,
My pains are o'er, behold your son.
"Thank heaven, sweet partner," he replied,
"The poor man's labour's then begun."
Alas! the hapless life she gave,
By fate was doomed to cost her own;
For, soon she found an early grave,
Nor stayed her partner long alone,
They left their orphan here below,
A stranger wild beneath the sun;
This lesson sad to learn from woe,
The poor man's labour's never done.
No parent's hand, with pious care
My childhood's devious steps to guide
my venturous youth beware
The griefs that smote on every side.
'Twas still a round of changing woe,
Woe never ending, still begun,
That taught my bleeding heart to know
The poor man's labour's never done.
Soon dies the faltering voice of fame;
The vow of love's too warm to last;
And friendship! what a faithless dream,
And wealth! how soon thy glare is past.
But sure one hope remains to save,
The longest course must soon be run ; And, in the shelter of the grave,
The poor man's labour must be done.
CCXLVIII. JOHN LOWE, 1750-1798.
The moon had climbed the highest hill
Which rises o'er the source of Dee,
And from the eastern summit shed
Her silver light on tower and tree;
When Mary laid her down to sleep,
Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea,
When, soft and low, a voice was heard,
Saying, ' Mary, weep no more for me!'
She from her pillow gently raised
Her head, to ask who there might be,
And saw young Sandy shivering stand,
With visage pale, and hollow e'e.
'O Mary dear, cold is my clay;
It lies beneath a stormy sea.
Far, far from thee I sleep in death;
So, Mary, weep no more for me!
Three stormy nights and stormy days
We tossed upon the raging main;
And long we strove our bark to save,
But all our striving was in vain.
E'en then, when horror chilled my blood,
My heart was filled with love for thee
The storm is past, and I at rest;
So, Mary, weep no more for me!
O maiden dear, thyself prepare;
We soon shall meet upon that shore,
Where love is free from doubt and care,
And thou and I shall part no more!'
Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled,
No more of Sandy could she see;
But soft the passing spirit said,
'Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!'
CCXLIX. SHERIDAN, 1751-1816.
1. SONG-I ne'er could any lustre see.
I ne'er could any lustre see
In eyes that would not look on me;
I ne'er saw nectar on a lip,
But where my own did hope to sip.
Has the maid who seeks my heart,
Cheeks of rose, untouch'd by art?
I will own the colour true,
When yielding blushes aid their hue.
Is her hand so soft and pure?
I must press it, to be sure;
Nor can I be certain then,
Till it grateful press again;
Must I, with attentive eye,
Watch her heaving bosom sigh?
I will do so when I see
That heaving bosom sigh for me.
2. SONG O the days!
O the days when I was young,
When I laugh'd in Fortune's spite,
Talk'd of love the whole day long,
And with nectar crown'd the night!
Then it was, old father Care;
Little reck'd I of thy frown,
Half thy malice youth could bear,
And the rest a bumper drown.
Truth, they say, lies in a well,
Why, I vow I ne'er could see,
Let the water-drinkers tell,
There it always lay for me:
For, when sparkling wine went round,
Never saw I falsehood's mask,
But still honest truth I found
In the bottom of each flask.
True, at length my vigour's flown,
I have years to bring decay;
Few the locks that now I own,
And the few I have are gray.
Yet, old Jerome, thou mayst boast,
While thy spirits do not tire,
Still beneath thy age's frost
Glows a spark of youthful fire.
CCL. CHATTERTON [ROWLEY], 1752-1770.
DEATH OF SIR C. BALDWIN.
The feather'd songster chanticleer
Had wound his bugle-horn,
And told the early villager
The coming of the morn.
King Edward saw the ruddy streaks
Of light eclipse the gray;
And heard the raven's croaking throat
Proclaim the fated day.
"Thou'rt right," quoth he, " for, by the God
That sits enthroned on high,
Charles Baldwin, and his fellows twain
To-day shall surely die."
Then with a jug of nappy ale
His knights did on him wait;
"Go, tell the traitor, that to-day
He leaves this mortal state."
Sir Canterlone then bended low,
With heart brimful of woe;
He journey'd to the castle gate,
And to Sir Charles did go.