My banes are buried in yon kirk-yard CAULD is my bed, Lord Archibald, Sae far ayont the sea, And it is but my blithesome ghaist And sad my sleep of sorrow : But thine sall be as sad and cauld, My fause true-love! to-morrow. And weep ye not, my maidens free, Though death your mistress borrow; I'M Madge of the country, I'm Madge For he for whom I die to-day, of the town, Shall die for me to-morrow. PROUD Maisie is in the wood, Singing so rarely. But has not a heart half so lightsome Sweet Robin sits on the bush, as mine. WHY, now I have Dame Fortune by the forelock, Couch your trains, and speed your flight, And if she 'scapes my grasp, the fault Safety parts with parting night; is mine; And on distant echo borne, Comes the hunter's early horn. The moon's wan crescent scarcely gleams, Ghost-like she fades in morning beams: Hie hence, each peevish imp and fay That scare the pilgrim on his way. Quench, kelpie! quench, in bog and fen, Thy torch, that cheats benighted men ; Thy dance is o'er, thy reign is done, For Ben-y-glow hath seen the sun. Wild thoughts that, sinful, dark, and deep, O'erpower the passive mind in sleep, Pass from the slumberer's soul away, Like night-mists from the brow of day: Foul hag, whose blasted visage grim Smothers the pulse, unnerves the limb, Spur thy dark palfrey, and begone! Thou dar'st not face the godlike sun. Chap. vi. |