Come, come, my love, and May-dews shake
In pailfuls from each drooping bough,
They'll give fresh lustre to the bloom
cheek now.

That breaks upon thy young
O'er hill and dale, o'er waste and wood,
Aurora's smiles are streaming free;
With earth it seems brave holiday,
In heaven it looks high jubilee:
And it is right, love;

For mark, love, mark,
How, bathed in light,

Chirrups the lark.

Chirrup, chirrup! he upward flies,
Like holy thoughts to cloudless skies.

They lack all heart who cannot feel

The voice of heaven within them thrill
In summer morn, when, mounting high,
This merry minstrel sings his fill.
Now let us seek yon bosky dell,

Where brightest wildflowers choose to be,
And where its clear stream murmurs on,

Meet type of our love's purity.

No witness there;

And o'er us, hark,

High in the air

Chirrups the lark.

Chirrup, chirrup! away soars he,

Bearing to heaven my vows to thee.

MARY'S GANE.

JOHN DONALD CARRICK, born 1787, died 1835. From "Whistle Binkie." Air-"Coming o'er the craigs o' Kyle."

Он, wae's my heart, now Mary's gane,
An' we nae mair shall meet thegither,

To sit an' crack at gloamin' hour,

By yon auld grey stane amang the heather:

Trysting-stane amang the heather, Trysting-stane amang the heather; How bless'd were we at gloamin' hour, By yon auld grey stane amang the heather!

Her father's laird, sae gair on gear,

He set their mailin to anither;

Sae they've selt their kye, and ower the sea
They've gane and left their native heather:
Left their native blooming heather,
Left their native blooming heather;
They've selt their kye, and ower the sea
They've gane and left their native heather.

Her parting look bespake a heart

Whase rising grief she couldna smother, As she waved a last farewell to me

And Scotland's braes and blooming heather:
Scotland's braes and blooming heather,
Scotland's braes and blooming heather;

'Twas sair against the lassie's will
To lea' her native blooming heather.

A burning curse licht on the heads

O' worthless lairds colleagued thegither

To drive auld Scotland's hardy clans

Frae their native hills and blooming heather: Native glens and blooming heather,

Native glens and blooming heather ;

To drive auld Scotland's hardy clans

Frae their native hills and blooming heather.

I'll sell the cot my granny left,

Its plenishing an' a' thegither,

An' I'll seek her out 'mang foreign wilds,
Wha used to meet me amang the heather:
Used to meet me amang the heather,
Used to meet me amang the heather;

I'll seek her out 'mang foreign wilds,
Wha used to meet me amang the heather.

O POVERTY.

ALEXANDER HUME, born 1809, died 1851.-C. R.

ELIZA was a bonnie lass, an', oh, she lo'ed me weel,
Sic love as canna find a tongue, but only hearts can feel;
But I was poor, her father doure, he wadna look on me :
O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.

I went unto her mother, an' I argued an' I fleech'd,
I spak' o' love an' honesty, an' mair an' mair beseech'd;
But she was deaf to a' my grief, she wadna look on me :
O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.

I neist went to her brother, an' I told him a'
my pain-
Oh, he was wae, he tried to say, but it was a' in vain ;
Though he was weel in love himsel', nae feeling he'd for me:
O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.

O wealth! it makes the fool a sage, the knave an honest man,
An' canker'd grey locks young again, gin he hae gear an' lan';
To age maun beauty ope her arms, though wi' a tearful ee:
O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee,

But wait a wee; oh, love is slee, and winna be said nay,
It breaks a' chains except its ain, but it maun hae its way ;—
Auld age was blind, the priest was kind- -now happy as can be:
O poverty! O poverty! we're wed in spite of thee.

HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL.

Modernised version of the older song.

I WISH I were where Helen lies-
Night and day on me she cries;
Oh, that I were where Helen lics,
On fair Kirkconnell lea!

O Helen, fair beyond compare!
I'll make a garland of thy hair,
Shall bind my heart for evermair,
Until the day I die.

Cursed be the heart that thought the thought,
And cursed the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died for sake o' me.

Oh, think nae but my heart was sair
When my love fell and spak' nae mair;
I laid her down wi' meikle care

On fair Kirkconnell lea.

I laid her down, my sword did draw,
Stern was our strife in Kirtle-shaw;
I hew'd him down in pieces sma',
For her that died for me.

Oh, that I were where Helen lies;
Night and day on me she cries,
Out of my bed she bids me rise,

"Oh, come, my love, to me!"

O Helen fair, O Helen chaste!
Were I with thee I would be blest,
Where thou liest low and tak'st thy rest
On fair Kirkconnell lea.

I wish I were where Helen lies-
Night and day on me she cries;
I'm sick of all beneath the skies,
Since my love died for me.

LUCY'S FLITTIN'.

WILLIAM LAIDLAW, died 1846. Mr. Laidlaw was the steward, amanuensis, and tried and trusted friend of Sir Walter Scott.

"TWAS when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was fa'in',
And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year,

That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a’ in't,
And left her auld maister and neebours sae dear:
For Lucy had served in the glen a' the simmer;

She cam' there afore the flower bloom'd on the pea;
An orphan was she, and they had been kind till her—
Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her ee.

She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin';
Richt sair was his kind heart the flittin' to see:
Fare ye weel, Lucy! quo' Jamie, and ran in,

The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his ee.
As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' the flittin',
Fare ye weel, Lucy! was ilka bird's sang;

She heard the craw sayin't high on the tree sittin',

And robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang.

Oh, what is't that pits my puir heart in a flutter?
And what gars the tears come sae fast to my ee?
If I wasna ettled to be ony better,

Then what gars me wish ony better to be?
I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither;
Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see;
I fear I hae tint my puir heart a'thegither,—
Nae wonder the tears fa' sae fast frae my ee.

Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon,
The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie ga'e me;
Yestreen, when he ga’e me't, and saw I was sabbin',
I'll never forget the wae blink o' his ee.

Though now he said naething but, Fare ye weel, Lucy!
It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see:
He could nae say mair but just, Fare ye weel, Lucy!
Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee.

The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when its droukit, The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea; But Lucy likes Jamie: she turn'd and she lookit,

She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless, And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn; For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless, Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return!