But by thy honest turf I'll wait, Thou man of worth! And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth.

LADY ANNE BARNARD.

[1705-1825.]

AULD ROBIN GRAY.

WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, and

the kye come hame,

And a' the weary warld to sleep are gane; The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee,

While my gudeman lies sound by me.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and socht me for his bride;

But saving a croun, he had naething else beside;

To mak that croun a pund, my Jamie gaed to sea;

And the croun and the pund they were baith for me.

He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day,

When my father brak his arm, and the

They gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea;

And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to

me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door,

I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he,

Till he said, "I'm come home, love, to marry thee."

O, sair did we greet, and muckle say of a'! I gie'd him but ae kiss, and bade him gang awa':

I wish I were dead! but I'm no like to dee;

And why do I live to cry, Wae 's me?

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;

But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, For auld Robin Gray, he is kind to me.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

[1757-1827.]

THE TIGER.

TIGER! Tiger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night;

What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

Burned the fire of thine eyes?
In what distant deeps or skies
What the hand dare seize the fire ?
On what wings dare he aspire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thine heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer, what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see?
Did He, who made the Lamb, make thee?

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

TO THE MUSES.

WHETHER On Ida's shady brow

Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, which now From ancient melodies have ceased;

Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,

Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air, Where the melodious winds have birth,

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,

Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wandering in many a coral grove, Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry,

How have you left the ancient lore
That bards of old engaged in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few.

I hear below the water roar,

The mill wi' clacking din,
And Lucky scolding frae the door,
To ca' the bairnies in.

O, no! sad and slow,

These are nae sounds for me;
The shadow of our trysting bush
It creeps sae drearily.

I coft yestreen, frae chapman Tam,
A snood o' bonnie blue,

And promised, when our trysting cam',
To tie it round her brow.

O, no! sad and slow,

The mark it winna' pass;

The shadow o' that dreary bush
Is tethered on the grass.

O now I see her on the way!

She's past the witch's knowe; She's climbing up the brownies brae; My heart is in a lowe,

O, no! 't is not so,

'Tis glamrie I hae seen;

The shadow o' that hawthorn bush
Will move nae mair till e'en.

My book o' grace I'll try to read,
Though conned wi' little skill;
When Collie barks I'll raise my head,

And find her on the hill.

O, no! sad and slow,

The time will ne'er be gane;
The shadow o' our trysting bush
Is fixed like ony stane.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

[1762-1831.]

THE GOWAN GLITTERS ON THE
SWARD.

THE gowan glitters on the sward,
The lav'rock's in the sky,

And Collie on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.

O, no! sad and slow,

And lengthened on the ground;
The shadow of our trysting bush
It wears so slowly round.

My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west,
My lambs are bleating near;
But still the sound that I love best,
Alack! I canna hear.

O, no! sad and slow,

The shadow lingers still;
And like a lanely ghaist I stand,
And croon upon the hill.

LADY CAROLINE NAIRN.

[1766-1845.]

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

I'm wearin' awa', Jean,
Like snaw in a thaw, Jean,
I'm wearin' awa'

To the Land o' the Leal.
There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
The day is ever fair

In the Land o' the Leal.

You've been leal and true, Jean,
Your task is ended noo, Jean,
And I'll welcome you

To the Land o' the Leal.

Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean; My soul langs to be free, Jean; And angels wait on me

To the Land o' the Leal.

Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean, She was baith gude and fair, Jean, And we grudged her sair

To the Land o' the Leal! But sorrow's self wears past, Jean, And joy's a comin' fast, Jean, The joy that's aye to last,

In the Land o' the Leal.

A' our friends are gane, Jean; We've lang been left alane, Jean; But we'll a' meet again

In the Land o' the Leal. Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean! This world's care is vain, Jean! We'll meet, and aye be fain

In the Land o' the Leal.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

[1766-1823.]

THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.

How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air,

And take possession of my father's chair! Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame, Appeared the rough initials of my name, Cut forty years before! The same old clock

Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock

I never can forget. A short breeze sprung,

And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue,

Caught the old dangling almanacs behind,

And up they flew like banners in the wind;

Then gently, singly, down, down, down

they went,

And told of twenty years that I had spent Far from my native land. That instant

came

A robin on the threshold; though so tame,

87

ROBERT TANNAHILL.

[1774-1810.]

THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE
BURN.

THE midges dance aboon the burn;
The dews begin to fa';

The paitricks down the rushy holm
Set up their e'ening ca'.
Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang
Rings through the briery shaw,
While flitting gay the swallows play
Around the castle wa'.

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky

The mavis mends her lay;

The redbreast pours his sweetest strains,
To charm the ling'ring day;
While weary yaldrins seem to wail
Their little nestlings torn,
The merry wren, frae den to den,

Gaes jinking through the thorn.
The roses fauld their silken leaves,

The honeysuckle and the birk
The foxglove shuts its bell;

Let others crowd the giddy court
Spread fragrance through the dell.

Of mirth and revelry,

The simple joys that Nature yields
Are dearer far to me.

THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER. LET us go, lassie, go,

To the braes o' Balquhither,
Where the blae-berries grow
'Mang the bonnie Highland heather;
Where the deer and the roe,

Lightly bounding together,
Sport the lang summer day
On the braes o' Balquhither.
I will twine thee a bower

By the clear siller fountain,
And I'll cover it o'er

Wi' the flowers of the mountain;
I will range through the wilds,
And the deep glens sae drearie,
And return wi' the spoils

To the bower o' my dearie.

When the rude wintry win'

Idly raves round our dwelling,

The sun is not set, but is risen on high, Nor long in corruption his body shall lie; Then let not the tide of thy griefs overflow,

Nor the music of heaven be discord below; Rather loud be the song, and triumphant the chord,

Let us joy for the dead who have died in the Lord.

Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament,

Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent;

But give to the living thy passion of tears, Who walk in this valley of sadness and fears;

Who are pressed by the combat, in darkness are lost,

By the tempest are beat, on the billows are tossed:

O, weep not for those who shall sorrow