Then saddle an' munt again, harness an' dunt again,

An' when ye gae hunt again, strike higher game.'

Hoot, whisht ye, my dame, for he comes o' gude kin,

An' boasts o' a lang pedigree;

This night he maun share o' our gude cheer within,

At morning's grey dawn he maun dee. He's gallant Wat Scott, heir o' proud Harden Ha',

Wha ettled our lands clear to sweep; But now he is snug in auld Elibank's paw, An' shall swing frae our donjon-keep. Tho' saddle an' munt again, harness an' dunt again,

I'll ne'er when I hunt again strike higher game."

"Is this young Wat Scott? an' wad ye rax

his craig,

When our daughter is fey for a man? Gae, gaur the loun marry our mucklemou'd Meg,

Or we 'll ne'er get the jaud aff our han'!" "Od! hear our gudewife, she wad fain save your life;

Wat Scott, will ye marry or hang?" But Meg's muckle mou set young Wat's

heart agrue,

Wha swore to the woodie he'd gang. Ne'er saddle nor munt again, harness nor dunt again,

MY BATH

Wat ne'er shall hunt again, ne'er see his hame.

Syne muckle-mou'd Meg press'd in close to his side,

An' blinkit fu' sleely and kind,

But

aye as Wat glower'd at his braw proffer'd bride,

He shook like a leaf in the wind. "A bride or a gallows, a rope or a wife!" The morning dawn'd sunny and clear Wat boldly strode forward to part wi' his life,

Till he saw Meggy shedding a tear; Then saddle an' munt again, harness an' dunt again,

Fain wad Wat hunt again, fain wad be hame.

Meg's tear touch'd his bosom, the gibbet frown'd high,

An' slowly Wat strode to his doom; He gae a glance round wi' a tear in his

(Scene - Kinnaird Burn, near Pitlochrie.)

COME here, good people great and small, that wander far abroad,

To drink of drumly German wells, and make a weary road

To Baden and to Wiesbaden, and how they

all are nam'd,

To Carlsbad and to Kissingen, for healing virtue fam'd;

Come stay at home, and keep your feet from dusty travel free,

And I will show you what rare bath a good God gave to me;

'Tis hid among the Highland hills beneath the purple brae,

With cooling freshness free to all, nor doctor's fee to pay.

No craft of mason made it here, nor carpenter, I wot;

Nor tinkering fool with hammering tool to shape the charmed spot; But down the rocky-breasted glen the foamy torrent falls

Into the amber caldron deep, fenced round with granite walls.

Nor gilded beam, nor pictur'd dome, nor curtain, roofs it in,

But the blue sky rests, and white clouds float, above the bubbling linn,

Where God's own hand hath scoop'd it out in Nature's Titan hall,

And from her cloud-fed fountains drew its waters free to all.

Oh come and see my Highland bath, and prove its freshening flood, And spare to taint your skin with swathes of drumly German mud : Come plunge with me into the wave like liquid topaz fair,

And to the waters give your back that spout down bravely there;

Then float upon the swirling flood, and, like a glancing trout,

Plash about, and dash about, and make a lively rout,

And to the gracious sun display the glory of your skin,

As you dash about and splash about in the

foamy-bubbling linn.

Oh come and prove my bonnie bath; in sooth 't is furnish'd well

With trees, and shrubs, and spreading ferns, all in the rocky dell,

And roses hanging from the cliff in grace of white and red,

And little tiny birches nodding lightly over

head,

And spiry larch with purple cones, and tips of virgin green,

And leafy shade of hazel copse with sunny glints between : Oh might the Roman wight be here who praised Bandusia's well,

He'd find a bath to Nymphs more dear in my sweet Highland dell.

Some folks will pile proud palaces, and some will wander far

To scan the blinding of a sun, or the blinking of a star;

Some sweat through Afric's burning sands ; and some will vex their soul

To find heaven knows what frosty prize beneath the Arctic pole.

God bless them all; and may they find what thing delights them well

In east or west, or north or south, but I at home will dwell

Where fragrant ferns their fronds uncurl, and healthful breezes play,

And clear brown waters grandly swirl beneath the purple brae.

Oh come and prove my Highland bath, the burn, and all the glen,

Hard-toiling wights in dingy nooks, and scribes with inky pen,

Strange thoughtful men with curious quests that vex your fretful brains, And scheming sons of trade who fear to count your slippery gains ; Come wander up the burn with me, and thread the winding glen,

And breathe the healthful power that flows down from the breezy Ben,

And plunge you in the deep brown pool; and from beneath the spray

You'll come forth like a flower that blooms 'neath freshening showers in May !

I am no gentleman, not I!
No star-bedizen'd thing!
My fathers filch'd no dignity,
By fawning to a king.
I am no gentleman, not I!
No, no, no!

And to the wage of honesty
My rank I owe.

I am no gentleman, not I!
No bowing, scraping thing!
I bear my head more free and high
Than titled count or king.

I am no gentleman, not I!
No, no, no!

And thank the blessed God on high,
Who made me so!

WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town, Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown, Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, "Are the weans in their bed?-for it 's now ten o'clock."

Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben? The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen,

The doug's spelder'd on the floor, and disna gie a cheep;

But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep.

Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue !—glow'rin' like the moon,

Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock,

Skirlin' like a kenna-what-wauknin' sleepin' folk!

Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel!

Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel,

Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums :

Hey, Willie Winkie!-See, there he comes!

TELL ME, YE WINGED WINDS

TELL me, ye winged winds,
That round my pathway roar,
Do ye not know some spot

Where mortals weep no more?
Some lone and pleasant dell,
Some valley in the west,
Where, free from toil and pain,

The weary soul may rest?

The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low, And sigh'd for pity as it answer'd, “No.”

Tell me, thou mighty deep,

Whose billows round me play,
Knowst thou some favor'd spot,
Some island far away,
Where weary man may find
The bliss for which he sighs,
Where sorrow never lives,

And friendship never dies?
The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow,
Stopp'd for a while, and sigh'd to answer,
"No."

And thou, serenest moon,

That, with such lovely face,
Dost look upon the earth
Asleep in night's embrace;
Tell me, in all thy round

Hast thou not seen some spot
Where miserable man

May find a happier lot?

Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe, And a voice, sweet but sad, responded, "No."

Tell me, my secret soul,

Oh! tell me, Hope and Faith, Is there no resting-place

From sorrow, sin, and death?