Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave Those everblooming sweets, which from the store Of Nature fair Imagination culls, To charm th' enliven'd soul ! What though not all Of mortal offspring can attain the height The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns The princely dome, the column, and the arch, The breathing marbles, and the sculptur'd gold, Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the Spring Distils her dew, and from the silken gem Its lucid leaves unfolds; for him the hand Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wing; And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud im bibes The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain From all the tenants of the warbling shade Ascend, but whence his bosom can partake Fresh pleasure unreproved. I lean'd my back unto an aik, And thought it was a trusty tree, O waly, waly, but love is bonny, And fades away like morning dew. Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed, The sheets shall ne'er be fil'd by me, Saint Anton's well shall be my drink, Since my true love's forsaken me. Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves off the tree? Oh, gentle death! when wilt thou come! For of my life I am weary. 'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, Nor blowing snows inclemency; 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my love's heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town, We were a comely sight to see; My love was clad in the black velvet, And I mysel' in cramasie. But had I wist before I kiss'd That love had been so ill to win, Wi' the green grass growing over me! [ANONYMOUS. 1720.] WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY. O WALY, waly up the bank, And waly, waly down the brae, And waly, waly yon burn-side, Where I and my love wont to gae. [ANONYMOUS. 1730.] LADY ANNE BOTHWELL'S LAMENT. BALOW, my babe! lie still and sleep, Balow, my babe! lie still and sleep, It grieves me sore to hear thee weep Balow, my darling! sleep awhile, But smile not as thy father did, When he began to court my love, Balow, my babe, &c. Farewell, farewell, thou falsest youth I was too cred'lous at the first Thy love's no more, thy promise nought. I wish I were a maid again, Balow, my babe, &c. I take my fate from bad to worse, Balow, my babe, &c. Balow, my babe! weep not for me, Whose greatest grief's for wronging thee, Nor pity her deserved smart Who can blame none but her fond heart; For, too soon trusting latest finds Balow, my babe! thy father's fled, When he the thriftless son has play'd: Of vows and oaths forgetful, he Preferr'd the wars to thee and me; But now perhaps thy curse and mine Make him eat acorns with the swine. Balow, my babe, &c. But curse not him; perhaps now he, Stung with remorse, is blessing thee: Perhaps at death, for who can tell Whether the Judge of heaven and hell, By some proud foe has struck the blow, And laid the dear deceiver low? Balow, my babe, &c. I wish I were into the bounds, My name, whom once he call'd his fair! No woman's yet so fiercely set, If linen lacks, for my love's sake. Balow, my babe! I'll weep for thee; come: Born to sustain thy mother's shame Balow, my babe! lie still and sleep, weep. What's yonder floats? Oh, dule and sorrow! Oh! 'tis the comely swain I slew "Wash, oh, wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, His wounds in tears of dule and sorrow, Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, His helpless fate on the braes of Yarrow. "Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield, My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast, His comely breast on the braes of Yar row. "Did I not warn thee not to, not to love, "Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, 66 'Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, "Fair was thy love, fair, fair indeed thy love, In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter; Tho' he was fair, and well belov'd again, Than me he never lov'd thee better. "Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, then busk, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow." |