Quhilk maid divorce twene man and wyfe,
And mony children fatherless,

Quilk in this realme has been full ryfe ;
Lord, help these lands, our wrangs redress!—

"In July, on Saint James his even,
That four-and-twenty dismal day,
Twelve hundred, ten score, and eleven,
Of zeirs sen Chryst, the suthe to say;
Men will remember as they may,
Quhen thus the veritie they know;
And mony a ane may murn for ay,
The brim1 battil of the Harlaw."

FAIR HELEN OF KIRKCONNELL.

"A LADY of the name of Helen Irving or Bell, (for this is disputed by the two clans,) daughter of the laird of Kirkconnell, in Dumfriesshire, and celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two gentlemen in the neighbourhood. The name of the favoured suitor was Adam Fleming of Kirkpatrick: that of the other has escaped tradition, although it has been alleged that he was a Bell of Blacket-house. The addresses of the latter were, however, favoured by the friends of the lady, and the lovers were therefore obliged to meet in secret, and by night, in the churchyard of Kirkconnell, a romantic spot surrounded by the river Kirtle. During one of these private interviews, the jealous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, and levelled his carabine at the breast of his rival. Helen threw herself before her lover, received in her bosom the bullet, and died in his arms. A desperate and mortal combat ensued between Fleming and the murderer, in which the latter was cut to pieces. Other accounts say that Fleming pursued his enemy to Spain, and slew him in the streets of Madrid."-Sir Walter Scott.

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

Curst be the heart that thought the thought,

And curst the hand that fired the shot,

When in my arms burd Helen dropt,

And died to succour me!

1 Fierce.

Oh think ye na my heart was sair,

When my love dropt down and spake nae mair! There did she swoon wi' meikle care,

On fair Kirkconnell lee.

As I went down the water side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide,
On fair Kirkconnell lee-

I lighted down, my sword did draw,
I hacked him in pieces sma,
I hacked him in pieces sma,
For her sake that died for me.

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

Oh that I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,
Says, "Haste, and come to me!"

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
If I were with thee I were blest,
Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest,
On fair Kirkconnell lee.

I wish my grave were growing green;
A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,
And I in Helen's arms lying

On fair Kirkconnell lee.

I wish I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries,
And I am weary of the skies,

For her sake that died for me!

GILDEROY.

THE hero of this beautiful lament was Patrick Macgregor, Gillie Roy, the Red Boy, so called on account of the colour of his hair, and who was a notorious freebooter and cateran in the upper district of Perthshire, where he committed great outrages on the inhabitants. It is narrated in Spalding's History that "Gilderoy, and five other lymmars, were taken and had to Edinburgh, and all hanged in the month of July 1638.”

GILDEROY was a bonnie boy,
Had roses till his shoon;
His stockings were of silken soy,
Wi' garters hanging doon.
It was, I ween, a comelie sight
To see sae trim a boy;

He was my joy, and heart's delight,
My handsome Gilderoy.

Oh twa sic charming een he had,
Breath sweet as any rose ;
He never wore a Highland plaid,
But costly silken clothes.
He gain'd the luve of ladies gay,
Nane e'er to him was coy;
Ah! wae is me, I mourn the day
For my dear Gilderoy.

My Gilderoy and I were born
Baith in a town together;
We scant were seven years beforn
We 'gan to luve ilk ither.

Our daddies and our mammies they
Were fill'd wi' mickle joy,

To think upon the bridal day
Of me and Gilderoy.

For Gilderoy, that luve of mine,
Gude faith, I freely bought
A wedding sark of Holland fine,
Wi' dainty ruffles wrought;
And he gied me a wedding ring,
Which I received wi' joy.
Nae lad nor lassie e'er could sing
Like me and Gilderoy.