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Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave I lean'd my back unto an aik, Those everblooming sweets, which from And thought it was a trusty tree, the store

But first it bow'd, and syne it brak', Of Nature fair Imagination culls,

Sae my true love did lightly me. To charm th' enliven'd soul ! What though not all

O waly, waly, but love is bonny, Of mortal offspring can attain the height

A little time while it is new, Of envied life; though only few possess

But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld, Patrician treasures, or imperial state : And fades away like morning dew. Yet Nature's care to all her children just, Oh! wherefore should I busk my head ? With richer treasures and an ampler state Or wherefore should I kame my hair? Endows at large whatever happy man For my true love has me forsook, Will deign to use them. His the city's And says he'll never love me mair.

pomp, The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed, The princely dome, the column, and the The sheets shall ne'er be fil'd by me, arch,

Saint Anton's well shall be my drink, The breathing marbles, and the sculptur'd Since my true love's forsaken me. gold,

Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, Beyond the proud possessor's narrow And shake the green leaves off the tree! claim,

Oh, gentle death! when wilt thou come? His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the For of my life I am weary.

Spring Distils her dew, and from the silken gem 'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, Its lucid leaves unfolds ; for him the hand Nor blowing snows inclemency; Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, With blooming gold, and blushes like the But my love's heart grown cauld to me. morn.

When we came in by Glasgow town, Each passing hour sheds tribute from her We were a comely sight to see; wing;

My love was clad in the black velvet, And still new beauties meet his lonely And I mysel' in cramasie.

walk, And loves unfelt attract him. Not a But had I wist before I kiss'd breeze

That love had been so ill to win, Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud im- I'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold, bibes

And pinn'd it with a silver pin. The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain And oh! if my young babe were born, From all the tenants of the warbling And set upon the nurse's knee, shade

And I mysel were dead and gane, Ascend, but whence his bosom can par. Wi' the green grass growing over me!

take Fresh pleasure unreproved.

(ANONYMOUS. 1730.)



BALOw, my babe ! lie still and sleep, BONNY.

It grieves me sore to hear thee weep : O WALY, waly up the bank,

If thou'lt be silent, I'll be glad, And waly, waly down the brae, Thy mourning makes my heart full sad. And waly, waly yon burn-side,

Balow, my babe! thy mother's joy! Where I and my love wont to gae. Thy father bred me great annoy.

Balow, my babe ! lie still and sleep, Balow, my babe! weep not for me, It grieves me sore to hear thee Whose greatest grief's for wronging weep


Nor pity her deserved smart Balow, my darling! sleep awhile, Who can blame none but her fond And when thou wak'st then sweetly heart; smile ;

For, too soon trusting latest finds But smile not as thy father did,

With fairest tongues are falsest minds. To cozen maids ; nay, God forbid !

Balow, my babe, &c.
For in thine eye his look I see,
The tempting look that ruin'd me. Balow, my babe! thy father's ied,
Balow, my babe, &c.

When he the thriftless son has play'd :

Of vows and oaths forgetful, he When he began to court my love, Preferr'd the wars to thee and me; And with his sugar'd words to move, But now perhaps thy curse and mine His tempting face, and flatt'ring cheer, Make him eat acorns with the swine. That time to me did not appear ;

Balow, my babe, &c.
But now I see that cruel he
Cares neither for his babe nor me. But curse not him ; perhaps now he,
Balow, my babe, &c.

Stung with remorse, is blessing thee :

Perhaps at death, for who can tell Farewell, farewell, thou falsest youth Whether the Judge of heaven and hell, That ever kiss a woman's mouth! By some proud foe has struck the blow, Let never any after me

And laid the dear deceiver low?
Submit unto thy courtesy :

Balow, my babe, &c.
For, if they do, oh! cruel thou
Wilt her abuse, and care not how. I wish I were into the bounds,
Balow, my babe, &c.

Where he lies smother'd in his wounds,

Repeating, as he pants for air, I was too cred'lous at the first

My name, whom once he callid his To yield thee all a maiden durst :

Thou swore for ever true to prove, No woman's yet so fiercely set,
Thy faith unchang'd, unchang'd thy love; But she'll forgive, tho' not forget.
But quick as thought the change is Balow, my babe, &c.

Thy love's no more, thy promise nought. If linen lacks, for my love's sake.
Balow, my babe, &c.

Then quickly to him would I make

My smock, once for his body meet, I wish I were a maid again,

And wrap him in that winding-sheet. From young men's flattery I'd refrain ; Ah me! how happy had I been, For now unto my grief I find

If he had ne'er been wrapp'd therein, They all are perjur'd and unkind :

Balow, my babe, &c. Bewitching charms bred all my harms, Witness my babe lies in my arms Balow, my babe! I'll weep for thee; Balow, my babe, &c.

Tho' soon, alack, thou'lt weep for me!

Thy griefs are growing to a sum, I take my fate from bad to worse, God grant thee patience when they That I must needs be now a nurse, And lull my young son on my lap ! Born to sustain thy mother's shama From me, sweet orphan, take the pap. A hapless fate, a bastard's name. Balow, my child ! thy mother mild

Balow, my babe! lie still and sleep, Shall wail as from all bliss exiled.

It grieves me sore to hear thee Balow, my babe, &c.




[WM. HAMILTON OP BANGOUR. 1904–1754.) What's yonder floats ? Oh, dule and THE BRAES OF YARROW

sorrow !

Oh! 'tis the comely swain I slew “Busk ye, busk ye, my boimy bonny Upon the doleful braes of Yarrow!

bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,

“Wash, oh, wash his wounds, his mands Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny

in tears, bride,

His wounds in tears of dule and sorrow, And let us leave the braes of Yarrow." And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,

And lay him on th - braes of Yarrow ! “Where got ye that bonny bonny bride, Where got ye that winsome marrow?"

“Then build, then build, ye sisters, “I got her where I durst not well be Ye sisters sad,'his tomb with sorrow,

sisters sad, seen, Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow." His helpless fate on the braes of Yarrow.

And weep around in woeful wise, Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny “Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless bride,

shield, Weep not, weep not, my winsome mar- My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, row,

The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast, Nor let thy heart lament to leave

His comely breast on the braes of Yar. Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow." “Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny “Did I not warn thee not to, not to love, bride?

And warn from fight? but to my sorrow, Why does she weep thy winsome mar- Too rashly bold, a stronger arm row?

Thou met'st, and fell on the braes of And why dare ye nae mair well be seen Yarrow. Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow?"

“Sweet smells the birk, green grows,

green grows the grass, “Lang must she weep, lang must she, Yellow on Yarrow braes the gowan, must she weep,

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Lang must she weep with dule and Sweet is the wave of Yarrow flowan. sorrow,

“ Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as And lang must I nae mair well be seen Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.

sweet flows Tweed,

As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, “For she has tint her lover, lover dear,

As sweet smells on its braes the birk, Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow;

The apple from its rocks as mellow. And I have slain the comeliest swain

“Fair was thy love, fair, fair indeed thy That ever pu'ed birks on the braes of

love, Yarrow.

In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter ;

Tho' he was fair, and well belov'd again, “Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Than me he never lov'd thee better.

Yarrow, reid? Why on thy braes heard the voice of “Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny sorrow?

bride, And why yon melancholious weeds, Busk ye, then busk, my winsome marrow, Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow ? Busk ye, and lo'c me on the banks of

Tweed, “What's yonder floats on the rueful, And think nae mair on the braes of rueful flood ?


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