Let merry England proudly rear
Her blended roses, bought so dear

Let Albin bind her bonnet blue

;

With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew;
On favour'd Erin's crest be seen
The flower she loves of emerald green-
But, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree!

prepare

Strike the wild harp, while maids
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair;
And, while his crown of laurel-leaves
With bloody hand the victor weaves,
Let the loud trump his triumph tell;
But when you hear the passing bell,
Then, lady, twine a wreath for me,
And twine it of the cypress tree!

Yes! twine for me the cypress bough:
But, O Matilda, twine not now!
Stay till a few brief months are past,
And I have look'd and lov'd my
last!
When villagers my shroud bestrew
With pansies, rosemary, and rue-
Then, lady, weave a wreath for me,
And weave it of the cypress tree!

STARS, DINNA PEEP IN.

Bright stars, dinna peep in,

To see me wi' Mary,

An' O thou bright an' bonnie moon,

Don't at her window tarry.
Sair yestreen ye scared me,
Sair yestreen ye barred me,
Frae kisses kind ye marred me,
Ye peep'd sae in on Mary.

Mary's a winsome quean,
Light as ony fairy;
Mary's a gentle quean,

Oh I daute her dearly.

An' when the moon is moving,
She loves to go a roving,

An' then she's leal an' loving,—

My ain sweet Mary.

THE MAID OF LLANWELLYN.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

I've no sheep on the mountain, nor boat on the lake,
Nor coin in my coffer to keep me awake,

Nor corn in my garner, nor fruit on my tree-
Yet the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.

Soft tapping at eve to her window I came,

And loud bayed the watch dog, loud scolded the dame.
For shame, silly Lightfoot, what is it to thee,
Though the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me?

Rich Owen will tell

you with eyes

full of scorn,

Threadbare is my coat, and my hosen are torn :

Scoff on, my rich Owen, for faint is thy glee
When the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.

The farmer rides proudly to market and fair,

And the clerk at the alehouse still claims the great

chair;

But of all our proud fellows the proudest I'll be, While the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me.

For blithe as the urchin at holiday play,
And meek as the matron in mantle of gray,
And trim as the lady of noble degree

Is the maid of Llanwellyn who smiles upon me.

THE GALLANT AULD CARLE.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

A gallant auld carle a-courting came,

And ask'd with a cough, was the heiress at hame;
He was shaven smooth, with love-knots in his shoon,
And his breath was as cauld as the Hallowmass moon:
He has twa top-coats on, and a gray plaid;

Be kind to him, maiden, he's weel arrayed;

His lairdship lies by the kirk-yard dyke,
For he'll be rotten ere I be ripe.

The carle came ben with a groan and a cough,
And I was sae wilful and wicked as laugh :

He spoke of his lands, and his horses, and kye,

They were worth nae mair than a blink of my eye;
He spake of his gold-his locks, as he spake,

From the gray did

grow to the glossy black: And I scarce could say to the carle's gripe, I doubt ye'll be rotten ere I be ripe.

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.

A chieftain, to the highlands bound,
Cries, Boatman, do not tarry,
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry.
And who be ye would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?

Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this lord Ullin's daughter.

And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together;
For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.
His horsemen hard behind us ride-
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?

Outspoke the hardy highland wight,
I'll go, my chief-I'm ready:
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady.

VOL. IV.