And there let fancy rove at large, till sleep
A vision brought to his entranced sight.

And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep
Shrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright,
With instantaneous gleam, illumed the vault of night.

Nor was this ancient dame a foe to mirth.

Her ballad, jest, and riddle's quaint device Oft cheered the shepherds round their social hearth; Whom levity or spleen could ne'er entice To purchase chat or laughter at the price Of decency. Nor let it faith exceed That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice. Ah! had they been of court or city breed, Such delicacy were right marvellous indeed.

Oft when the winter storm had ceased to rave, He roamed the snowy waste at even, to view The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave High-towering, sail along th' horizon blue; Where, midst the changeful scenery, ever new, Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries, More wildly great than ever pencil drewRocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size, And glittering cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise.

Thence musing onward to the sounding shore,
The lone enthusiast oft would take his way,

Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar
Of the wide-weltering waves.
In black array

When sulphurous clouds rolled on th' autumnal day,
Even then he hastened from the haunts of man,

Along the trembling wilderness to stray,

What time the lightning's fierce career began,

And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran.

Responsive to the sprightly pipe when all

In sprightly dance the village youth were joined,
Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall,

From the rude gambol far remote reclined,

Soothed with the soft notes warbling in the wind.

Ah then all jollity seemed noise and folly
To the pure soul by fancy's fire refined!
Ah, what is mirth but turbulence unholy

When with the charm compared of heavenly melancholy!

LADY ANNE LINDSAY

AULD ROBIN GRAY

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,
And a' the warld to rest are gane,

The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
While my gudeman lies sound by me.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;
But saving a croun he had naething else beside;
To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaid to sea;
And the croun and the pund were baith for me.

He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,

When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa';

My mother she fell sick,—and my Jamie at the seaAnd auld Robin Gray came å-courtin' me.

My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;
I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win;
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e
Said, 'Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!'

My heart it said nay; I looked for Jamie back;

But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;
His ship it was a wrack-Why didna Jamie dee?
Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me!

My father urged me sair: my mother didna speak;
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break:
They gi'ed him my hand, though my heart was in the sea;
Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four,
When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,
I saw my Jamie's wraith,-for I couldna think it he,
Till he said, 'I'm come hame to marry thee.'

O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away:
I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;
And why was I born to say, 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 aye to be,
For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.

1

JEAN ADAMS

THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE

And are ye sure the news is true,
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think of wark?

Ye jauds, fling by your wheel.
Is this the time to think of wark,
When Colin's at the door?

Gi'e me my cloak! I'll to the quay
And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck ava;

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.

Rise up and mak' a clean fireside;
Put on the muckle pot;

Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown,
And Jock his Sunday coat:

And mak' their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;

It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's been long awa'.

There's twa fat hens upon the bauk,
Been fed this month and mair;
Mak' haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;

And mak' the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw;
It's a' for love of my gudeman,
For he's been long awa'.

O gi'e me down my bigonet,
My bishop satin gown,

For I maun tell the bailie's wife
That Colin's come to town.

My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on,
My hose o' pearl blue;

'Tis a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's baith leal and true.

Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech,'

His breath's like caller air!

His very foot has music in't,
As he comes up the stair.

And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy with the thought,In troth, I'm like to greet.

The cauld blasts o' the winter wind,
That thrilled through my heart,
They're a' blawn by; I ha'e him safe,
Till death we'll never part:
But what puts parting in my head?
It may be far awa';

The present moment is our ain,

The neist we never saw.

1

Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content,
I ha'e nae more to crave;

Could I but live to mak' him blest,
I'm blest above the lave:
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,-
In troth, I'm like to greet.

ROBERT FERGUSSON

THE DAFT DAYS

Now mirk December's dowie face
Glowrs owr the rigs wi' sour grimace,
While, thro' his minimum of space,
The bleer-eyed sun,

Wi' blinkin' light and stealing pace,
His race doth run.

From naked groves nae birdie sings;
To shepherd's pipe nae hillock rings;
The breeze nae od'rous flavour brings
From Borean cave;

And dwyning Nature droops her wings,
Wi' visage grave.

Mankind but scanty pleasure glean
Frae snawy hill or barren plain,
Whan Winter, 'midst his nipping train,
Wi' frozen spear,

Sends drift owr a' his bleak' domain,
And guides the weir.

Auld Reikie! thou'rt the canty hole,
A bield for mony a caldrife soul,
What snugly at thine ingle loll,
Baith warm and couth,

While round they gar the bicker roll
To weet their mouth.