DONALD CAIRD's come again! Donald Caird's come again! Donald Caird can wire a maukin, Not for bountith or reward Donald Caird's come again! Hieland chief and Lawland laird Steek the amrie, lock the kist, Donald Caird's come again! On Donald Caird the doom was stern, Craig to tether, legs to airn; Donald Caird's come again! MADGE WILDFIRE'S SONGS. The hind keeps the hill. O sleep ye sound, Sir James, she said, When ye suld rise and ride? There's twenty men, wi' bow and blade, Are seeking where ye hide. Hey for cavaliers, ho for cavaliers, Ďub a dub, dub a dub; Have at old Beëlzebub,Oliver's running for fear. I glance like the wildfire through country and town; I'm seen on the causeway-I'm seen on the down; The lightning that flashes so bright and so free, Is scarcely so blithe or so bonny as me. What did ye wi' the bridal ring-bri dal ring-bridal ring? What did ye wi' your wedding ring, ye little cutty quean, O? I gied it till a sodger, a sodger, a sodger, I gied it till a sodger, an auld true love o' mine, O. Good even, good fair moon, good even to thee; I prithee, dear moon, now show to me The form and the features, the speech and degree, Our work is over-over now, Of the man that true lover of mine The goodman wipes his weary row, shall be. It is the bonny butcher lad, That wears the sleeves of blue, He sells the flesh on Saturday, On Friday that he slew. There's a bloodhound ranging Tinwald Wood, There's harness glancing sheen; There's a maiden sits on Tinwald brae, And she sings loud between. Up in the air, On my bonnie grey mare, The last long wain wends slow away, And labour ends when day is done. come, We hold our jovial harvest-home. When the fight of grace is fought,- away, And Hope but sickens at delay,— And I see, and I see, and I see her Christian, rise, and come away. In the bonnie cells of Bedlam, I had hempen bracelets strong, Cauld is my bed, Lord Archibald, And sad my sleep of sorrow: And weep ye not, my maidens free, Though death your mistress bor row; For he for whom I die to-day, Shall die for me to-morrow. Proud Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; "Tell me, thou bonny bird, That delves the grave duly. "The glow-worm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady. The owl from the steeple sing, 'Welcome, proud lady.'' LUCY ASHTON'S SONG. Look not thou on beauty's charming, Sit thou still when kings are arming, Taste not when the wine-cup glist ens, Speak not when the people listens,Stop thine ear against the singer, The moon's wan crescent scarcely Ghost-like she fades in morning gleams, beams; Hie hence, each peevish imp and fay That scare the pilgrim on his way. From the red gold keep thy finger,-Quench, kelpy! quench, in fog and Vacant heart, and hand, and eye, Easy live and quiet die. NORMAN THE FORESTER'S THE monk must arise when the matins ring, The abbot may sleep to their chime; But the yeoman must start when the bugles sing, "Tis time, my hearts, 'tis time. There's bucks and raes on Billhope braes, There's a herd on Shortwood Shaw; fen, Thy torch, that cheats benighted men; Thy dance is o'er, thy reign is done, For Benyieglo hath seen the sun. IV. Wild thoughts, that, sinful, dark, and deep, O'erpower the passive mind in sleep, Pass from the slumberer's soul away: Like night-mists from the brow of day: Foul hag, whose blasted visage grim Smothers the pulse, unnerves the limb, Spur thy dark palfrey, and begone! Thou darest not face the godlike sun. THE ORPHAN MAID. NOVEMBER'S hail-cloud drifts away, November's sun-beam wan Looks coldly on the castle grey, When forth comes Lady Anne. The orphan by the oak was set, Her arms, her feet, were bare; The hail-drops had not melted yet, Amid her raven hair. "And, dame," she said, "by all the ties That child and mother know, Aid one who never knew these joys, Relieve an orphan's woe.' The lady said, "An orphan's state Who mourns both lord and heir. "Twelve times the rolling year has sped, Since, while from vengeance wild Of fierce Strathallan's chief I fled, Forth's eddies whelm'd my child." Note well her smile!-it edged the blade Which fifty wives to widows made, When, vain his strength and Mahound's spell, Iconium's turban'd Soldan fell. See'st thou her locks, whose sunny glow They've robed that maid, so poor and Half shows, half shades, her neck of pale, In silk and sendals rare; And pearls, for drops of frozen hail, Are glistening in her hair. snow? |