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Psalms, and then went home full of the • Come here, come here, my ruddie mate,
meek and lowly composure of religion." The gate o' luve to try.'

The lav'roc calls his freckled mate,
There's kames o' hinney 'tween my luve's

Frae near the sun's ee-bree,
lips,

« Come make on the knowe our nest of An' gowd amang her hair,

luve,'
Her breasts are lapt in a holie veil,

A theme which pleaseth me.
Nae mortal een keek there.
What lips dare kiss, or what hand dare touch, The hates hae brought forth twins, my love,
Or what arm o'luve dare span

Sae has the cushat doo;
The hinney lips, the creamy loof,

The raven croaks a safter way,
Or the waist o' Ladie Ann.

His sootie love to woo :

And nought but luve, luve breathes around,
She kisses the lips o' her bonnie red rose

Frae hedge, frae field, an' tree,
Wat wi' the blobs o' dew;

Soft whispering luve to Jeanie's heart,
But nae gentle lip, nor simple lip,

A theme which pleaseth me.
Maun touch her Ladie mou.
But a broider'd belt wi' a buckle o' gowd, O Lassie, is thy heart mair hard
Her jimpy waist maun span,

Than mavis frae the bough ;
O she's an armfu' fit for heaven,

Say maun the hale,creation wed,
My bonnie Ladie Ann.

And Jean remain to woo ?

Say has the holie lowe o' luve
Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers,

Ne'er lighten'd in your ee?
Tied up wi' silver thread,

0, if thou canst na feel for pain,
An' comely sits she in the midst,

Thou art nae theme for me?
Men's longing een to feed.
She waves the ringlets frae her cheek, Burns, though the best song-writer in
Wi' her milky, milky han',

the world, has not, in our opinion,
An' her cheeks seem touch'd wi' the finger produced six songs equal to Allan
o' God,

Cunningham's “ Lass of Preston Mill.”
My bonnie Ladie Ann !

Why does it not find its way into mu-
The morning cloud is. tassel'd wi' gowd, sical collections ?
Like my luve's broider'd cap.

The lark had left the evening cloud,
An' on the mantle which my luve wears The dew fell saft, the wind was lowne,
Are monie a gowden drap.

Its gentle breath amang the flowers

Scarce stirred the thistle's tap of down;
Her bonnie eebree's a holie arch

The dappled swallow left the pool,
Cast by no earthlie han',

The stars were blinking o'er the hill;
An' the breath o' God's atween the lips

As I met amang the hawthorns green,

The lovely lass o' Preston Mill.
O’my bonnie Ladie Ann !

Her naked feet amang the grass,
I am her father's gardener lad,

Seemed like twa dew-gemmed lilies fair;
An' poor, poor is my fa';

Her brows shone comely 'mang her locks,

Black curling owre her shouthers bare:
My auld mither gets my wee, wee fee, Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth ;
Wi' fatherless bairnies twa :

Her lips were like a honey well,
My Ladie comes, my Ladie gaes

And heaven seemed looking through her een,

The lovely lass o' Preston Mill.
Wi' a fou and kindly han',

Quo' I, •fair lass, will ye gang wi' me,
O the blessing o' God maun mix wi' my Where black cocks craw, and plovers cry?
luve,

Sax hills are wooly wi' my sheep,
An' fa' on' Ladie Ann !

Sax vales are lowing wi' my kye:
I hae looked lang for a weel-faur'd lass,

By Nithsdale's howmes an’ monie a hill;'-
There is, we think, much true love in

She hung her head like a dew-bent rose,
the following stanzas,--warmth, ten The lovely lass o' Preston Mill.
derness, and delicacy.

Quo' I, sweet maiden, look nae down,

But gie's a kiss, and gae wi' me:'
Cauld winter is awa, my luve,

A lovelier face, O! never looked up,

And the tears were drapping frae her ee:
And spring is in her prime,

• I hae a lad, wha's far awa,
The breath o God stirs a' to life,

That weel could win a woman's will;
The grasshoppers to chime :

My heart's already fu' o' love,'

Quo' the lovely lass o' Preston Mill,
The birds canna contain themsels

• O wha is he wha could leave sic a lass,
Upon the sprouting tree,

To seek for love in a far countrie?'
But loudlie, loudlie sing o' luve,

Her tears drapped down like simmer dew,
A theme which please themsels

I fain wad hae kissed them frae her ee.

I took butane o' her comelic cheek ;
The blackbird is a pawkie loun,

For pity's sake, kind Sir, be still!
An' kens the gate o’luve;

My heart is fu'o'ither love,'

Quo' the lovely lass o' Preston Mill.
Fu' weel the sleeket mavis kens

She streeked to heaven her twa white hands,
The melting lilt maun muve.

And lifted up her watry ee;
The gowdspink woos in gentle note,

* Sae lang's my heart kens ought o' God,
And ever singeth he,

Or light is gladsome to my ee ;

While woods grow green, and burns rin clear,
• Come here, come here, my spousal dame,'

Till my last drap o' blood be still,
A theme which pleaseth me.

My heart sall haud nae ither love,'

Quo' the lovely lass o' Preston Mill.
What says the sangster Rose-linnet ?

• There's comelie maids on Dee's wild banks,
His breast is beating high,

And Nith's romantic vale is fu';

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By lanely 'Clouden's hermit stream,

How rosie are thy parting lips, Dwalls monie a gentle dame, I trow!

How lilie-white thy skin. O, they are lights of a bonnie kind,

An' weel I wat thae kissing een As ever shone on vale or hill;

Wad tempt a saint to sin.' But there's a light puts them a' out,

• Tak aft' thae bars an' bobs o' gowd, The lovely lass o' Preston Mill.

Wi' thy gared doublet fine;

An' thraw me aff thy green mantle, We finish our quotations from this Leafed wi' the siller twine. somewhat mysterious volume with the An' a' in courtesie fair knight,

A maiden's mind to win, longest poem in it; and as there is

The gowd lacings o' thy green weeds, no doubt whatever, that it is by Allan

Wad harm her litie skin.' Cunningham, our readers will, from Syne coost he aff his green mantle,

Hemm'd wi' the red gowd roun'; its perusal, judge for themselves of his

His costly doublet coost he alt, powers as a poet.

Wi' red gowd tow'red down.
There's a maid has sat o' the green merse side • Now ye maun kame my yellow hair,
Thae ten lang years and mair;

Down wi' my pearlie kame;
An'every first night o' the new inoon

Then rowe me in thy green mantle, She kames her yellow hair.

An' take me maiden hame.' An' ay while she sheds the yellow burning gowd, But come first tauk me 'neath the chin, Fu' sweet she sings and hie,

An' syne come kiss my cheek; Till the fairest bird that wooes the green wood, An' spread my hanks o' watry hair, Is charmed wi' her melodte.

l' the new-moon beam to dreep.' But whae'er listens to that swect sang,

Sae first he kiss'd her dimpled chin, Or gangs the fair dame te ;

Syne kissed her rosie cheek; Ne'er hears the sang o' the lark again,

An' lang he woo'd her willin' lips, Nor waukens an earthlie ee.

Like hether-hinnie sweet! It fell in about the sweet simmer month, l' the first come o' the moon,

'O! if ye'll come to the bonnie Cowehill, That she sat o' the tap of a sea-weed rock,

Mang primrose banks to woo, A-kaming her silk-locks down.

I'll wash thee ilk day i'the new milked milk,

An' bind wi' gowd yere brow. Her kame was o' the whitely pearl,

An' a' for a drink o' the clear water Her hand like new-won milk;

Ye'se hae the rosie wine, Her breasts were o' the snawy curd,

An' a' for the water white lilie, In a net o' sea-green silk.

Ye'se hae these arms o' mine.' She kamed her locks owre her white shoulders, But what 'll she say, yere bonnie young bride A fleece baith bonny and lang;

Busked wi' the siller fine; An' ilka ringlet she shed frae her brows,

Whan the rich kisses ye kept for her lips, She raised a lightsome sang.

Are left wi' vows on mine? l' the very first liit o' that sweet sang,

He took his lips frae her red-rose meu, The birds forhood their young;

His arm frae her waist sae sma': And they flew i' the gate o' the gray howlet, • Sweet maiden, I'm in brydal speed, To listen the sweet maiden.

It's time I were awa.' l' the second lilt o' that sweet sang,

O gie me a token o'luve sweet May, ( sweetness it was sae fu';

A leal luve token true;' The tod lap up owre our fauld-dyke,

She crapped a lock o' yellow gowden hair, And dighted his red-wat mou.

An' knotted it roun' his brow, l' the very third lilt o' that sweet sang,

• O tie nae it sae strait, sweet May, Red lowed the new woke moon;

But wi' love's rose-knot kynde; The stars drapped blude on the yellow gowan tap,

My head is fu' o' burning pain, Sax miles round that maiden.

O saft ye maun it bynde.' • I haedwalt on the Nith,'

young Cowehill,

His skin turned a' o' the red-rose hue, . These twenty years an' three,

Wi Draps o' bludie sweat; But the sweetest sang e'er brake frae a lip,

An' he laid his head 'mang the water lilies, Comes through the green wood to me.

Sweet maiden, I maun sleep. O is it a voice frac twa earthlie lips,

She tyed ae link o' her wat yellow hair, Whik makes sic mclodie?

Aboon his burning bree; It wad wyle the lark frae the morning lift,

Among his curling haffet locks And weel may it wyle me!'

She knotted knurles three. • I dreamed a dreary thing, master,

She weaved owre his brow the white lilie, Whilk I am rad ye rede;

Wi' witch-knots mae than nine; I dreamed ye kissed a pair o' sweet lips,

* Gif ye were seven times bride-groom owre, That drapped o' red heart's-blude.

This night ye shall be mine." Come haud my steed, ye little foot-page,

O twice he turned his sinking head, Shod wi' the red gowd roun';

An' twice he lifted his ee; Till I kiss the lips whilk sing sae sweet,

O twice he sought to lift the links An' lightlie lap he down.

Were knotted owre his bree. • Kiss nae the singer's lips, master,

* Arise, sweet knight, yere young bride waits, Kiss nae the singer's chin ;

An' doubts her ale will sowre: Touch nae her hand,' quo' the little foot-page,

An' wistly looks at the lily white sheets, • If skaithless hame ye'd win.

Down spread in ladie-bowre.' O wha will sit on yere toom saddle,

An' she bas prenned the bruidered silk, ( wha will bruik yere gluse;

About her white hause bane; An' wha will fauld yere erled bride,

Her princely petticoat is on, l'the kindlic clasps o' luve?"

Wigowd can stan' its lane. He took aff his hat, a' gowd i' the rim,

He faintlie, slowlie, turnd his cheek, Knot wi'a siller ban';

And faintly lift his ee, He seemed a' in lowe wi' his gowd raiment,

And he strave to lowse the witching bands As thro' the greenwood lie ran.

Aboon his burning bree. • The simmer-dew fa's saft, fair maid,

Then took she up his green mantle Aneath the siller inoon :

Of lowing gowd the hem; But eerie is thy seat i' the rock,

Then took she up his silken cap, Washed wi' ihe white sea faem.

Rich wi' a siller stem; Come wash me wi' thy lilie white hand,

An' she threw them wi' her lilie hand
Below and 'boon the knee:

Amang the white sea faem.
An' i'll kame thae links o' yellow burning gowd, She took the bride ring frac his finger
Aboom thy bonnie blue ee.

An' threw it in the sea :

quo' the

• That hand shall mense nae ither ring

She sat high on the tap towrc stane, But wi' the will o' me.'

Nae waiting May was there; She faulded him i' her lilie arms,

She lowsed the gowd busk frae her broust, An' left her pearlie kame;

The kame frae 'mang her hair; His fleecy locks trailed owre the sand

She wiped the tear-blobs frae her ee, As she took the white sea-faem.

And looked lang and sair ! First raise the star out owre the hill,

First sang to her the blythe wee bird, And niest the lovelier moon :

Frae aff the hawthorn green ; While the beauteous bride o' Gallowa

• Loose out the love curls frae yere hair, Looked for her blythe bride-groom.

Ye plaited sae weel yestreen.' Lythlie she sang while the new-moon raise, An' the spreckled woodlark frae 'mang the clouds Blythe as a young bride May,

O' heaven came singing down; When the new-moon lights her lamp o' luve,

• Tauk out the bride-knots frae yere hair An' blinks the bryde away.

An' let thae lang locks down.' • Nithsdale, thou art a gay garden,

• Come, byde wi' me, ye pair of sweet birds, Wi' monie a winsome flower ;

Come down an' byde wi' me; But the princeliest rose o' that garden

Ye sall peckle o' the bread an' drink o' the wine, Maun blossom in my bower.

An' gowd yere cage sall be.' An I will kepp the drapping dew

She laid the bride-cake 'neath her head, Frae my red rose's tar,

An' syne below her feet; An' the balmy blobs o' ilka leaf,

An' laid her down 'tween the lilie-white sheets I'll kepp them drap by drap.

An' soundlie did she sleep! An' I will wash thy white bosom

It was i' the mid-hour of the night, A' wi' this heavenly sap.'

Her siller-bell did ring; An' ay she sewed her silken snood,

An' soun't as nae carthlie hand An' sung a brydal sang;

Had pou'd the silken string. But aft the tears drapt frae her ee,

There was a cheek touch'd that ladye's, Afore the gray morn cam.

Cauld as the marble stane; The sun lowed ruddie 'mang the dew,

An' a band cauld as the drifting snaw

Was laid on her brcast-bane.
Sae thick on bank and trec;
The plow-boy whistled at his darg,

* cauld is thy hand, my dear Willie, The milk-may answered hie;

O cauld, cauld is thy cheek; But the lovely bride o' Gallowa

An' wriug thae locks o' yellow hair, Sat wi' a wat-shod ee.

Frae which the cauld draps dreep. Uk breath o'wind 'mang the forest leaves

• O seck anither bridegroom, Marie, She heard the bridegroom's tongue,

On thae bosom-faulds to sleep; And she heard the brydal-coming lilt

My bride is the yellow water lisie, In every bird which sung.

Its leaves my brydal sheet ! We have seen what a great genius has lately been able to make of the Scottish character in those wonderful Prose Tales which have revealed to us secrets supposed to have been for ever buried in forgetfulness. Ten thousand themes are yet left untouched to native poets-for, after all, Burns has drawn but few finished pictures, and was, for the most part, satisfied with general sketches and rapid outlines. It is not easy to imagine the existence of a more original poet than Burns, who shall also be moved by an equal sympathy with lowly life ;-but it is very easy to imagine the existence of a poet who shall possess a far deeper insight into the grandeur and pathos of that lowly life, who shall contemplate it with a more habitual reverence, and exhibit it in a nobler, yet perfectly natural, mould of poetry. With all our admiration of the genius both of the Ettrick Shepherd and of Allan Cunningham, we are not prepared to say that either of them is such a poet—but we have not the slightest doubt, that if either of them were to set himself seriously to the study of the character of the peasantry of Scotland, as a subject of poetry, he might proluce something of deep and universal interest, and leave behind him an imperishable name.

THE CLYDESDALE YEOMAN'S RETURN.
An excellent new ballad to the tune of Grammachrac.

Written and Sung by Dr Scott.
'Twas on a Wednesday evening, John Craig came darkling hame,
The bairns they a' were sleeping, but wakefu' was the dame,
Yet rose she not when John came in-a thought displeased was she,
That John so late, on market days, in coming home should be.
And 'tis, “Oh, John Craig, I wonder-what a decent man like you
Can find so late, in Glasgow town, on Wednesday for to do?"
“ Gude words, gude wife," quoth Johnny, “ I'm sure you cannot say
That black the white is o' my ee, since e'er our wedding-day-
What past before's as weel forgot, for your sake as for mines
What signify late comings-home-that were sae lang sin’ syne?
Come gie's a cupfu' of your best, and I'se tell you where I've been-
For I've been at the Meeting, and the Radicals I've seen.'
Vol. VI.

2 S

And 'tis, “ Oh, John Craig ! wae woman, full surely ye'll make me,
If ye tak to these evil ways, like other lads I see-
An orra cup I might forgie-but oh ! the night is black,
That frae a weaver-meeting I see my man come back.
And ’tis, oh, John! think and ponder, for they're neer-do-weels, I trow,
And the day that ye gaed near them first, that day we all shall rue.”
Cheer up, gudewife, cheer up, Jean-what's all this fuss ?" quoth John-
“ Gude troth a little matter gars a woman to take on-
It was but Charlie Howatt persuaded me to stay
To see the fun for once, and hear what the callants had to say-
But 'tis true ye speak, they're neer-do-weels—they are a Godless crew,
And I'll gang back nae mair, Jean, for I've seen and heard enow."
And 'tis, “Oh, John Craig-blythe woman-me now your words have made"-
And with that a rowth o' peats and sticks aboon the fire is laid-
And the auld green bottle is brought furth, and John his quaigh runs o'er,
Sae kind the mistress had not been this mony a night before !
“ And 'tis-touch your cup, John Craig, my man—for a weary way ye've been,
Now tell me all the fairlies—here's to you John," quo' Jean.
A good ten thousand weavers and colliers from Tollcross,
Came marching down the Gallowgate in order firm and close,
In even file and order due, like soldiers did they come,
And their feet did beat, in union meet, to trumpet, fife, and drum.
And they had captains of their own, and banners red and blue,
That o'er their heads, with wicked words, and fearful symbols flew.
They played the tune, whose echo brings to our ears delight-
They played God save the King, Jean, but I trow 'twas all in spite;
For I fear, had they their evil will, they would pull the old man down,
And place upon some rascal head old Scotia's golden crown.
But when I looked upon the loons, for feckless loons were they,
Thinks I, we'll have a tussel yet, ere ye shall have your way.
Now when they came into the field—the music it did cease,
And up a weaver mounted, that had better held his peace;
For when I heard him raving against both Lord and King,
Thinks I, your throat deserveth no neckcloth, save a string.
And when against God's word and law with merry jibes he spoke,
Think's I, the day will come yet, ye'll repent ye of your joke.
But the darkest sight of all I saw, was the women that were there,
For they all had knots of colours three, entwined among their hair ;
And well I knew what meant the same, for knots like these were worn
When the French began to curse their king, and laugh their God to scorn ;
When, to strumpets base, devoid of grace, the fools did bend their knees,
'Twas then three-coloured ribbons drove out the flower-de-lys.
“ But, by God's grace, no such disgrace shall come upon our head,
Or stain our ancient Scutcheon's face-old Scotia's Lion Red ;
For be the weavers what they will, we Country Lads are true,
And the hour they meet the country boys, that hour they'll dearly rue ;
For our hearts are firm, our arms are strong, and bonny nags have we,
And we'll all go out with General Pye, and the upshot you shall see.”
“ Nay, God preserve the King," quoth Jean, “and bless the Prince, his son,
And send good trade to weaver lads, and this work will all be done ;
For 'tis idle hand makes busy tongue, and troubles all the land
With noisy fools that prate of things they do not understand.
But if worse fall out, then up, my man-was never holier cause,
God's blessed word-King George's crown-and proud old Scotland's laws !"

THE WARDER.

No II.

"LET MINE ENEMY BE AS THE WICKED, AND HE THAT RISETH UP AGAINST ME AS THE

UNRIGHTEOUS. --JOB XXVII. 7.

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When we last addressed our readers now visible in the character of British
on the state of Public Affairs, and on statesmen. But not to fear, or at least
the symptoms of the diseases of the not to prepare for resistance, when the
times, the country was looking for- object threatened or assailed is no other
ward with strong and high hopes than the Religion of our country, would
which have not been disappointed-to betoken a shocking insensibility to the
the meeting of Parliament. All the blessings which it bestows, and a
lovers of freedom, order, and religion, shocking ingratitude to the God by
and none but they can be lovers of the whom it was revealed.
land in which all these Sanctities have It is not to be wondered at, there-
so long dwelt inviolated, well knew, fore, that almost all persons of any de-
that when the Grand Council of the gree of knowledge and education, have
Nation assembled, the voice of Britain expressed alarm for their country, and,
would be there lifted up in recognition along with that alarm, a determination
and defence of those principles by to guard its threatened blessings. The
which alone the glory of a great Peo- language of impiety has come upon
ple can be upheld. That a black and their ears, not from the dark dens a-
evil spirit had been too long brewing lone of our crowded cities, but even
among the dregs of society, and that from the hamlet and the village that
that spirit had been stirred up, and fed, once stood in the peacefulness of na-
and strengthened by wicked men, ture, like so many little worlds, happy
who hoped to see it ere long burst out in the simplicity of their manners, the
into conflagration, was, we may safely blamelessness of their morals, and the
say, an almost universal belief; and confidence of their faith. Accustomed
the only difference of opinion among as they had been to look with delight,
good and wise men was with regard to and awe, and reverence, on all those
the greatness and the proximity of the forms and services of religion by which
danger. When the character of a its Spirit is kept alive in men's hearts,
people seems to be not only shaken and which have been created by the
and disturbed, but vitiated and pois- devout aspirations of human nature
oned, when it is no longer mere dis seeking alliance with Higher Power,
content, or disaffection to government the most ordinary men were startled
that is heard murmuring throughout and confounded to hear all religious
the lower ranks of life—but a bold and establishments with the foulest exe-
fierce and reckless spirit of impiety and crations threatened and assailed, and
irreligion, it is the bounden duty of all that Book from which all truth and
who are free from that malignant dis- knowledge has spread over the world,
ease, and resolved to arrest its progress, daily and weekly exposed, beneath the
to become Alarmists. There is no re skies of Britain, to the most hideous
proach, but true praise in the epithet, profanation. The danger has not
when bestowed not on meresticklers for struck only the clear-sighted and the
men and measures--but on them who high-souled—but it has forced itself
know,from themelancholy history of hu- upon the thoughts of men of every
man nature, how rapid and deadly is the character and condition; and the hum-
contagion of infidelity-how fearful its blest and lowliest Christian has looked
ravages when it is spread among the forth with sorrow from the quiet
poor-how difficult the cure, but how homestead of his own inoffensive and
easy the prevention. There is some retired life, on the loud and tumultuous
thing cowardly in being prone to fear spirit of infidelity abroad in the world.
even the most angry and threatening But it is not to be thought that, in
discontent of the people-more espe a country like Britain, whore there is
cially in times of distress and priva- and so long has been so much talent,
tion; and there is no such proneness genius, philosophy, and erudition,

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