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Though colic or the heart-scad teaze us,
inward dwam should seize us,
That would ye spulzie,
Wi' little tulzie.
That aft conveen
To catch our een.
Could then discover
Were worth a lover ?
CCXLVI. LADY ANN BARNARD, 1750—1825.
AULD ROBIN GRAY. 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
awa; 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
his e'e, Said, “ Jennie, for their sakes, will you marry me !"
My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back;
6 Wae's me?"
the sea ;
And so auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me.
gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ;
CCXLVII. CURRAN, 1750—1817.
THE POOR MAN'S LABOUR.
Flowed fast and chilly o’er her brow,
Sweet mercy cast a glance below.
My pains are o'er, behold
“ The poor man's labour's then begun."
By fate was doomed to cost her own;
Nor stayed her partner long alone,
A stranger wild beneath the sun;
man's labour's never done.
No parent's hand, with pious care
My childhood's devious steps to guide
my venturous youth beware
Woe never ending, still begun,
man's labour's never done.
The vow of love's too warm to last;
And wealth! how soon thy glare is past.
The longest course must soon be run ;
poor man's labour must be done.
CCXLVIII. JOHN LOWE, 1750—1798.
Which rises o'er the source of Dee,
Her silver light on tower and tree;
Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea,
Saying, 'Mary, weep no more for me!'
Her head, to ask who there might be,
With visage pale, and hollow e'e.
It lies beneath a stormy sea.
So, Mary, weep no more for me!
We tossed upon the raging main
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 ;
that would not look on me;
2. BONGO 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,
There it always lay for me:
Never saw I falsehood's mask,
In the bottom of each flask.
I have years to bring decay ;
While thy spirits do not tire,
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,
The coming of the morn.
Of light eclipse the gray ;
Proclaim the fated day.
That sits enthroned on high,
To-day shall surely die.”
He leaves this mortal state.”
With heart brimful of woe;
And to Sir Charles did go.