"I want that land for to be corn,— Oure the hills and far awa’

And ye maun aer1 it wi' your horn,"

The cauld wind's blawn my plaid awa'.

"And ye maun saw it without a seed,-
Oure the hills and far awa'-

And ye maun harrow it wi' a threed,”—
The cauld wind's blawn my plaid awa'.

"And ye maun shear it wi' your knife,—
Oure the hills and far awa'-

And na tyne a pickle o't for your life,"

The cauld wind's blawn my plaid awa'.

"And ye maun moue 2 it in yon mouse-hole,-
Oure the hills and far awa',-
And ye maun thrash it in your shoe-sole,”-
The cauld wind's blawn my plaid awa’.

"And ye maun fan it wi' your luves,3.

Oure the hills and far awa'

3_

And ye maun sack it in your gloves,"-
The cauld wind's blawn my plaid awa'.

"And ye maun bring it oure the sea,Oure the hills and far awa’

Fair and clean, and dry to me,”—

The cauld wind's blawn my plaid awa'.

"And whan that your wark is weill deen,4—
Oure the hills and far awa’-

Ye'se get your sark without a seam,"
The cauld wind's blawn my plaid awa'.

1 Till.

8 Winnow it with your palms.

2 Put it up in ricks.

4 Well done.

SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST.

(From Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany.)

THERE came a ghost to Margret's door,
Wi' many a grievous groan;

And aye he tirled at the pin,
But answer made she none.

"Is that my

father Philip?

Or is 't my brother John?

Or is 't my true love, Willie,

From Scotland new come home?"

"'Tis not thy father Philip,

Nor yet thy brother John;

But 'tis thy true love, Willie,

From Scotland new come home.

"O sweet Marg'ret! O dear Marg❜ret! I pray thee speak to me;

Give me my faith and troth, Margret,
As I gave it to thee."

"Thy faith and troth thou's never get,
Nor yet will I thee lend,

Till that thou come within my bower,
And kiss my cheek and chin.”

"If I should come within thy bower,
I am no earthly man;

And should I kiss thy rosy lips,
Thy days will not be lang.

"O sweet Marg'ret! O dear Marg❜ret! I pray thee speak to me;

Give me my faith and troth, Marg❜ret,
As I gave it to thee."

"Thy faith and troth thou's never get,

Nor yet will I thee lend,

Till you take me to yon kirkyard,
And wed me wi' a ring."

"My bones are buried in yon kirkyard,
Afar beyond the sea;

And it is but my spirit, Margret,
That's now speaking to thee."

She stretched out her lily-white hand,
And for to do her best:

"Hae, there's your faith and troth, Willie ; God send your soul good rest."

Now she has kilted her robes of green,
A piece below her knee,

And a' the live-lang winter night,

The dead corp follow'd she.

"Is there any room at your head, Willie ? Or any room at your feet?

Or any room at your side, Willie,
Wherein that I may creep?"

"There's no room at my head, Marg❜ret,

There's no room at my feet;
There's no room at my side, Marg❜ret,
My coffin's made so meet.'

Then up and crew the red, red cock,
And up then crew the gray:
"'Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Marg❜ret,
That you were going away."

No more the ghost to Marg'ret said,
But with a grievous groan,
Evanish'd in a cloud of mist,
And left her all alone.

"Oh stay, my only true love, stay," The constant Marg❜ret cry'd;

Wan grew her cheeks, she closed her een, Stretch'd her soft limbs, and died.

LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW.

"THIS fragment, obtained from recitation in the Forest of Ettrick, is said to relate to the execution of Cockburne of Henderland, a Border freebooter, hanged over the gate of his own tower, by James V., in the course of that memorable expedition, in 1529, which was fatal to Johnie Armstrong, Adam Scott of Tushielaw, and many other marauders. The adjacent country, which now hardly bears a single tree, is celebrated by Lesly as, in his time, affording shelter to the largest stags in Scotland. A mountain torrent, called Henderland Burn, rushes impetuously from the hills, through a rocky chasm, named the Dow Glen, and passes near the site of the tower. To the recesses of this glen the wife of Cockburne is said to have retreated during the execution of her husband; and a place, called the Lady's Seat, is still shown, where she is said to have striven to drown, amid the roar of a foaming cataract, the tumultuous noise which announced the close of his existence. In a deserted burial-place, which once surrounded the chapel of the castle, the monument of Cockburne and his lady is still shown. It is a large stone, broken in three parts; but some armorial bearings may yet be traced and the following inscription is still legible, though defaced:

'HERE LYES PErys of Cokburne and his wife MARJORY.'

"Tradition says that Cockburne was surprised by the king while sitting at dinner. After the execution, James marched rapidly forward to surprise Adam Scott of Tushielaw, called the King of the Border, and sometimes the King of Thieves. A path through the mountains which separate the vale of Ettrick from the head of Yarrow, is still called the King's Road, and seems to have been the route which he followed. The remains of the tower of Tushielaw are yet visible, overhanging the wild banks of the Ettrick, and are an object of terror to the benighted peasant, from an idea of their being haunted by spectres. From these heights, and through the adjacent county of Peebles, passes a wild path, called still the Thief's Road, from having been used chiefly by the marauders of the Border."-Scott.

My love he built me a bonnie bower,

And clad it a' wi' lily flower;

A brawer bower ye ne'er did see,
Than my true love he built for me.

There came a man, by middle day,
He spied his sport, and went away;
And brought the king that very night,
Who brake my bower, and slew my knight.

He slew my knight, to me sae dear;
He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear:
My servants all for life did flee,

And left me in extremitie.

I sew'd his sheet, making my mane;
I watch'd the corpse mysell alane ;
I watch'd his body night and day;
No living creature came that way.

I took his body on my back,
And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat ;
I digg'd a grave, and laid him in,
And happ'd him with the sod sae green.

But think na ye my heart was sair,
When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair?
Oh, think na ye my heart was wae,
When I turn'd about, away to gae?

Nae living man I'll love again,
Since that my lively knight is slain;
Wi' ae lock o' his yellow hair
I'll chain my heart for evermair.

LIZZIE LINDSAY.

THERE was a braw ball in Edinburgh,
And mony braw ladies were there,
But nae ane at a' the assembly

Could wi' Lizzie Lindsay compare.

In cam the young laird o' Kincassie,
An' a bonnie young laddie was he:
Will ye lea' yere ain kintra, Lizzie,
An' gang to the Hielands wi' me?"

66

She turn'd her roun' on her heel,

An' a very loud laughter gaed she: "I wad like to ken whar I was ganging, And wha I was gaun to gang wi'."

"My name is young Donald M'Donald,
My name I will never deny;
My father he is an auld shepherd,
Sae weel as he can herd the kye;