And what if I enwreathed my own? The sober hills thus deck their brows I see- And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, The vapours linger round the heights, Will dwell with me-to heighten joy And cheer my mind in sorrow. WORDSWORTH. SIR HUGH; OR, THE JEW'S DAUGHTER YESTERDAY was brave Hallowday, He kicked the ball with his foot, Out then came the Jew's daughter 'Will ye come in and dine?' 'I winna come in and I canna come in, Till I get that ball of mine. 'Throw down that ball to me, maiden, Throw down the ball to me.' 'I winna throw down your ball, Sir Hugh, Till ye come up to me.' She pu'd the apple frae the tree, She wiled him into ae chamber, She wiled him into the third chamber, She took out a little penknife, She twined this young thing o' his life, And first came out the thick, thick blood, And syne came out the thin, And syne came out the bonnie heart's bloodThere was nae mair within. She laid him on a dressing-table, Says, 'Lie ye there, my bonnie Sir Hugh, She put him in a case of lead, Says, 'Lie ye there and sleep; ' Says Bonnie Sir Hugh, and pretty Sir Hugh, I pray you speak to me; If you speak to any body in this world, I pray you speak to me.' When bells were rung and mass was sung, And every body went hame, Then every lady had her son, She rolled her mantle her about, She cries, Bonnie Sir Hugh, O pretty Sir Hugh, I pray you speak to me; If you speak to any body in this world, I pray you speak to me.' 'Lady Helen, if ye want your son, I'll tell ye where to seek; She ran away to the deep draw-well, Saying, 'Bonnie Sir Hugh, O pretty Sir Hugh, pray ye speak to me, If ye speak to any body in the world, I pray ye speak to me.' 'Oh! the lead it is wondrous heavy, mother, The well it is wondrous deep, The little penknife sticks in my throat, And I downa to ye speak, 'But lift me out o' this deep draw-well, And bury me in yon churchyard; Put a Bible at my head,' he says, 'And a testament at my feet, And pen and ink at every side, And I'll lie still and sleep. 'And go to the back of Maitland town, For it's at the back of Maitland town O the broom, the bonny, bonny broom ANONYMOUS. A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE THIS ae nighte, this ae nighte, Fire, and sleet, and candle lighte, And Christe receive thye saule. When thou from hence away art paste, To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste, If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, Sit thee down and put them on, And Christe receive thye saule. If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gavest nane, The whinnes sall pricke thee to the bare bane; |