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That morning he left us, our cock never crew,

Our gray clocking hen she gaed keckling her lane; The gowk frae the craft never cried cuckoo,

That wearyfu' morning our Habbie left hame.

When the wind blaws loud and tirls our strae,
An' a' our house sides are dreeping wi' rain,
An' ilka burn rows frae the bank to the brae,
weep for our Habbie who rows i' the main.

I

When the wars are owre, an' quiet is the sea,

On board the Culloden our Hab will come hame: My slumbers will then be as sweet as the Dee,

An' how blythe we'll be a' when our Habbie comes hame.

THE BONNIE BARK.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

O come, my bonnie bark,
O'er the waves let us go,
With thy neck like the swan,

And thy wings like the snow-
Spread thy plumes to the wind,
For a gentle one soon
Maun welcome us home,

Ere the wane of the moon.

The proud oak that built thee
Was nursed in the dew
Where my gentle one dwells,
And stately it grew.

I hew'd its beauty down;

Now it swims on the sea, And wafts spice and perfume, My fair one, to thee.

O sweet, sweet's her voice,
As a low warbled tune;
And sweet, sweet her lips,

Like the rose-bud of June.
She looks to sea and sighs,
As the foamy wave flows,
And treads on men's strength,
As in glory she goes.

O haste, my bonnie bark,
O'er the waves let us bound,

As the deer from the horn,

Or the hare from the hound. Pluck down thy white plumes, Sink thy keel in the sand, Whene'er ye see my love,

And the wave of her hand.

THE WIDOW'S LAMENT.

JAMES HOGG.

Oh, thou art lovely yet, my boy,
Even in thy winding sheet!
I canna leave thy comely clay,
And features calm and sweet.
I have no hope but for the day
That we shall meet again,
Since thou art gane, my bonnie boy,
And left me here alane.

I hoped thy sire's loved form to see,
To trace his looks in thine;
And saw, wi' joy, thy sparkling e'e
Wi' kindling vigour shine:

I thought, when I was fail'd, I might
Wi' you and yours remain ;
But thou art fled, my bonnie boy,

And left me here alane.

Now closed and set that sparkling e'e,

Thy breast is cauld as clay;

And a' my hope, and a' my joy,
Wi' thee are reft away.

Ah, fain wad I that comely clay

Reanimate again!

But thou art fled, my bonnie boy,

And left me here alane.

The flower now fading on the lea,
Shall fresher rise to view;

The leaf just falling frae the tree,

The year will soon renew;
But lang may I weep o'er thy grave
Ere thou revivest again,

For thou art fled, my bonnie boy,
And left me here alane!.

ALLAN-A-MAUT.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Good Allan-a-Maut lay on the rigg,
One call'd him bear, one call'd him bigg;
An old dame slipp'd on her glasses: Aha!
He'll waken, quoth she, with joy to us a'.
The sun shone out, down dropp'd the rain,
He laugh'd as he came to life again;
And carles and carlins sung who saw't,
Good luck to your rising, Allan-a-Maut.

Good Allan-a-Maut grew green and rank,
With a golden beard and a shapely shank,
And rose sae steeve, and wax'd sae stark,
He whomelt the maid, and coupit the clark;
The sick and lame leap'd hale and weel,
The faint of heart grew firm as steel,
The douce nae mair call'd mirth a faut,-
Such charms are mine, quoth Allan-a-Maut.

THE CAPTIVE HUNTSMAN.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
My idle greyhound loathes his food,
My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrall.
I wish I were as I have been,
Hunting the hart in forests green,
With bended bow and bloodhound free,
For that's the life is meet for me.

I hate to learn the ebb of time,
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,
Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,
Inch after inch, along the wall.

The lark was wont my matin ring,
The sable rook my vespers sing;

These towers, although a king's they be,
Have not a hall of joy for me.

No more at dawning morn I rise,

And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
Drive the fleet deer the forest through,
And homeward wend with evening dew;
A blithesome welcome blithely meet,
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the eve on wing of glee—

That life is lost to love and me.

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