$61, Song.

WHAT beauties does Flora disclose!
How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed!
But Mary's still sweeter than those,

Both nature and fancy exceed.
No daisy, nor sweet blushing rose,

Nor all the gay flow'rs of the field,
Nor Tweed gliding gently through those,
Such beauty and pleasure can yield.
The warblers are heard in each grove,
The linnet, the lark, and the thrush,
The blackbird, and sweet cooing dove,
With music enchant ev'ry bush.
Come, let us go forth to the mead,

Let us see how the primroses spring;
We'll lodge in some village on Tweed,
And love while the feather'd folks sing.
How does my love pass the long day?

Does Mary not tend a few sheep?
Do they never carelessly stray,

While happily she lies asleep?
Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest;
Kind Nature indulging my bliss,
To relieve the soft pains of my breast
I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.

Tis she does the virgins excel,

No beauty with her can compare; Love's graces all round her do dwell,

She's fairest where thousands are fair. Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray? O tell me, at noon where they feed! Shall I seek them on sweet winding Tay, Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed?

§ 62. Song. Nancy of the Vale. SHENSTONE. THE western sky was purpled o'er

With ev'ry pleasing ray,

And flocks, reviving, felt no more
The sultry heat of day;

When from a hazel's artless bow'r

Soft warbled Strephon's tongue;

He bless'd the scene, he bless'd the hour,
While Nancy's praise he sung.

Let fops with fickle falsehood range
The paths of wanton love;

Whilst weeping maids lament their change,
And sadden ev'ry grove :

But endless blessings crown the day
I saw fair Esham's dale;

And every blessing find its way
To Nancy of the Vale.

'Twas from Avona's bank the maid

Diffus'd her lovely beams';
And ev'ry shining glance display'd
The Naiad of the streams.
Soft as the wild-duck's tender young,
That float on Avon's tide,
Bright as the water-lily sprung

And glitt'ring near its side.

Fresh as the bord'ring flow'rs her bloom,
Her eye all mild to view;
The little halcyon's azure plume
Was never half so blue.

Her shape was like the reed, so sleek,

So taper, straight, and fair;

Her dimpled smile, her blushing cheek,
How charming sweet they were!
Far in the winding vale retir'd
This peerless bud I found,

And shadowing rocks and woods conspir'd
To fence her beauties round.
That nature in so lone a dell

Should form a nymph so sweet,
Or fortune to her secret cell
Conduct my wand'ring feet!

Gay lordlings sought her for their bride, But she would ne'er incline:

'Prove to your equals true," she cried, "As I will prove to mine. 'Tis Strephon on the mountain's brow Has won my right good-will; To him I give my plighted vow,

With him I'll climb the hill."

Struck with her charms and gentle truth, I clasp'd the constant fair;

To her alone I give my youth,

And vow my future care.

And when this vow shall faithless prove,
Or I these charms forego,

The stream that saw our tender love,
That stream shall cease to flow.

§ 63. Song. To the Memory of W. Shenstone, Esq. CUNNINGHAM.

COME, shepherds, we'll follow the hearse,
And see our lov'd Corydon laid:
Though sorrow may blemish the verse,

Yet let the sad tribute be paid.
They call'd him the pride of the plain;
In sooth he was gentle and kind;
He mark'd, in his elegant strain,
The graces that glow'd in his mind.
On purpose he planted yon trees,
That birds in the covert might dwell;
He cultur'd the thyme for the bees,
But never would rifle their cell.
Ye lambkins that play'd at his feet,
Go bleat, and your master bemoan;
His music was artless and sweet,
His manners as mild as your own.
No verdure shall cover the vale,

No bloom on the blossoms appear;
The sweets of the forest shall fail,
And winter discolor the year.
No birds in our hedges shall sing,
(Our hedges so vocal before,)
Since he that should welcome the spring
Can greet the gay season no more.
His Phyllis was fond of his praise,
And poets came round in a throng;
They listen'd, and envy'd his lays,
But which of them equall'd his song?
Ye shepherds, henceforward be mute,
For lost is the pastoral strain;
So give me my Corydon's flute,

And thus-let me break it in twain.

$64. Song. LYTTELTON. WHEN Delia on the plain appears, Aw'd by a thousand tender fears, I would approach, but dare not move; Tell me, my heart, if this be love? Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear No other voice but hers can hear, No other wit but hers approve; Tell me, my heart, if this be love? If she some other swain commend, Though I was once his fondest friend, His instant enemy I prove; Tell me, my heart, if this be love? When she is absent, I no more Delight in all that pleas'd before, The clearest spring, the shadiest grove; Tell me, my heart, if this be love? When fond of pow'r, of beauty vain, Her nets she spread for ev'ry swain, I strove to hate, but vainly strove; Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

65. Song. RowE.

Ah, willow' willow! Poor Colin went weeping, and told him his An, willow! willow! Ah, willow! willow! "Sweet stream," he cried, "sadly I'll teach thee to flow,

[woe. And the waters shall rise to the brink with my "All restless and painful my Celia now lies, And counts the sad moments of time as it flies:

No longer dress'd in silken sheen,

No longer deck'd with jewels rare, Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene Where thou wert fairest of the fair? O, Nancy! when thou'rt far away,

Wilt thou not cast a wish behind? Say, canst thou face the parching ray, Nor shrink before the wintry wind? O can that soft and gentle mien

Extremes of hardship learn to bear, Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene Where thou wert fairest of the fair? O, Nancy! canst thou love so true,

Through perils keen with me to go; Or, when thy swain mishap shall rue,

To share with him the pang of woe? Say, should disease or pain befall,

Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, Nor wistful those gay scenes recall

Where thou wert fairest of the fair? And when, at last, thy love shall die,

Wilt thou receive his parting breath? Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, And cheer with smiles the bed of death? And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay

Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear? Nor then regret those scenes so gay Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

67. Song. MALLET.

THE smiling morn, the breathing spring, Invite the tuneful birds to sing; And, while they warble from each spray, Love melts the universal lay. Let us, Amanda, timely wise,

her your care;

And in soft raptures waste the day,
Among the shades of Endermay!

For soon the winter of the year,
And age, life's winter, will appear;
At this thy living bloom must fade,
Our taste of pleasure then is o'er;
As that will strip the verdant shade.
The feather'd songsters love no more:
And when they droop, and we decay,
Adieu the shades of Endermay!

lieve,

$66. Song. PERCY.

O, NANCY! wilt thou go with me,

Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town? Can silent glens have charms for thee, The lowly cot and russet gown?

§ 68. Highland Mary. BURNS. banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfald her robes, And there the langest tarry: For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom! As underneath their fragrant shade, I clasp'd her to my bosom! The golden hours, on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me, as light and life, Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,

Our parting was fu' tender;

And, pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder;
But, oh! fell death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green s the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
And clos'd for aye the sparkling glance,
That dwelt on me sae kindly:
And mould'ring now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly;
But still within my bosom's core,
Shall live my Highland Mary.

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sa base as be a slave?

Traitor coward! turn and flee' Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa',

Caledonian! on wi' me!

By oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be-shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low !
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!

Forward let us do or die!

ment. BURNS.

CHORUS.

The warly race may richés chase,
An' riches still may fly them, O;
An' though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O'
Green grow, &c.

But gie me a cannie hour at e'en,

My arms about my dearie, O;
An' warly cars, an' warly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!
Green grow, &c.

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses,
The wisest man the warl e'er saw,
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, 0:
Her 'prentice han' she tried on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.

0;

70. Song. Bannock-Burn; Robert Bruce's Address to his Army. BURNS.

SCOTS wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has often led,
Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to glorious victorie.
Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lower;
See approach proud Edward's power-

Edward! chains! and slavery!

WHEN wild war's deadly blast was blawn,

And gentle peace returning,
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning.
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.

A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia hame again,
I cheery on did wander.

I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy;
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.
At length I reach'd the bonnie glen,
Where early life I sported;

I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling!
And turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, "Sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,
O! happy, happy may he be,

That's dearest to thy bosom!
My purse is light, I've far to gang,
And fain would be thy lodger;
I've serv'd my king and country lang,
Take pity on a sodger."

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,

And lovelier was than ever:
Quo' she, "A sodger ance I lo'ed,
Forget him shall I never :

Our humble cot, and hamely fare,
Ye freely shall partake it,
That gallant badge, the dear cockade,
Ye're welcome for the sake o't."
She gaz'd-she redden'd like a rose
Syne pale like ony lily;
She sank within my arms, and cried,
"Art thou my ain dear Willie ?".

"By Him who made yon sun and skyBy whom true love's regarded,

I am the man; and thus may still

True lovers be rewarded!

"The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,

And find thee still true-hearted! Though poor in gear, we're rich in love, And mair we'se ne'er be parted." Quo' she, "My grandsire left me gowd, A mailen plenish'd fairly; And come, my faithfu' sodger lad,

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly."

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodger's prize,

The sodger's wealth is honor;
The brave, poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember he's his country's stay
In day and hour of danger.

BURNS.

72. Song. The gloomy Night.
THE gloomy night is gath'ring fast,
Loud roars the wild, inconstant blast;
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain.
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scatter'd coveys meet secure,
While here I wander, press'd with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn
By early Winter's ravage torn ;
Across her placid, azure sky,
She sees the scowling tempest fly:
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

'Tis not the surging billow's roar;
"Tis not that fatal, deadly shore;
Though death in ev'ry shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear:
But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierc'd with many a wound;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.

Farewell, old Colia's hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales;
The scenes where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy loves!

Farewell, my friends! Farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those-
The bursting tears my heart declare-
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr.

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands

adorn,

And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn;
They pain my sad bosom sae sweetly they blaw,
They mind me o' Nannie-and Nannie's awa.
Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the
lawn,
[dawn,
The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking
And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa',
Give over for pity-my Nannie's awa.
Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and gray,
And soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay:
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw,
Alane can delight me-now Nannie's awa.

$74. Song. The Cypress Wreath, SCOTT.
O, LADY, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree!
Too lively glow the lilies light,
The varnish'd holly's all too bright,
The May-flower and the eglantine
May shade a brow less sad than mine:
But, Lady, weave no wreath for me,
Or weave it of the cypress tree!

Let dimpled mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine;
The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due;
The myrtle bough bids lovers live,
But that, Matilda will not give ;
Then, Lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree!

Let merry England proudly rear
Her blended roses, bought so dear;
Let Albin bind her bonnet blue
With heath and hare-bell dipped in dew;
On favor'd Erin's crest be seen
The flower she loves of emerald green-
But, Lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree!

Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair;
And, while his crown of laurel-leaves
With bloody hand the victor weaves,
Let the loud trump his triumph tell;
But when you hear the passing bell,
Then, Lady, twine a wreath for me,
And twine it of the cypress tree.
Yes! twine for me the cypress bough;
But, O Matilda, twine not now!
Stay till a few, brief months are past,
And I have look'd and lov'd my last!
When villagers my shroud bestrew
With pansies, rosemary, and rue,―
Then, Lady, weave a wreath for me,
And weave it of the cypress tree.

$75. Hunting Song. SCOTT