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the damask wine il ye pree? s her bonnie net a twine, grew herhausen the blund-red pa ealth, Foung strangada wden kame:-y drink thy heating
Psalms, and then went home full of the • Come here, come here, my ruddie mate,
The lav'roc calls his freckled mate,
Frae near the sun's ee-bree,
« Come make on the knowe our nest of An' gowd amang her hair,
A theme which pleaseth me.
Sae has the cushat doo;
The raven croaks a safter way,
His sootie love to woo :
And nought but luve, luve breathes around,
Frae hedge, frae field, an' tree,
Soft whispering luve to Jeanie's heart,
A theme which pleaseth me.
Than mavis frae the bough ;
Say maun the hale,creation wed,
And Jean remain to woo ?
Say has the holie lowe o' luve
Ne'er lighten'd in your ee?
0, if thou canst na feel for pain,
Thou art nae theme for me?
the world, has not, in our opinion,
Cunningham's “ Lass of Preston Mill.”
Why does it not find its way into mu-
The lark had left the evening cloud,
Its gentle breath amang the flowers
Scarce stirred the thistle's tap of down;
The dappled swallow left the pool,
The stars were blinking o'er the hill;
As I met amang the hawthorns green,
The lovely lass o' Preston Mill.
Her naked feet amang the grass,
Seemed like twa dew-gemmed lilies fair;
Her brows shone comely 'mang her locks,
Black curling owre her shouthers bare:
Her lips were like a honey well,
And heaven seemed looking through her een,
The lovely lass o' Preston Mill.
Quo' I, •fair lass, will ye gang wi' me,
Sax hills are wooly wi' my sheep,
Sax vales are lowing wi' my kye:
By Nithsdale's howmes an’ monie a hill;'-
She hung her head like a dew-bent rose,
Quo' I, sweet maiden, look nae down,
But gie's a kiss, and gae wi' me:'
A lovelier face, O! never looked up,
And the tears were drapping frae her ee:
• I hae a lad, wha's far awa,
That weel could win a woman's will;
My heart's already fu' o' love,'
Quo' the lovely lass o' Preston Mill,
• O wha is he wha could leave sic a lass,
To seek for love in a far countrie?'
Her tears drapped down like simmer dew,
I fain wad hae kissed them frae her ee.
I took butane o' her comelic cheek ;
For pity's sake, kind Sir, be still!
My heart is fu'o'ither love,'
Quo' the lovely lass o' Preston Mill.
She streeked to heaven her twa white hands,
And lifted up her watry ee;
* Sae lang's my heart kens ought o' God,
Or light is gladsome to my ee ;
While woods grow green, and burns rin clear,
Till my last drap o' blood be still,
My heart sall haud nae ither love,'
Quo' the lovely lass o' Preston Mill.
• There's comelie maids on Dee's wild banks,
And Nith's romantic vale is fu';
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.
Down wi' my pearlie kame;
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,'
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
Amang the white sea faem.
An' threw it in the sea :
• 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.
* 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.
Written and Sung by Dr Scott.
And 'tis, “ Oh, John Craig ! wae woman, full surely ye'll make me,
"LET MINE ENEMY BE AS THE WICKED, AND HE THAT RISETH UP AGAINST ME AS THE
UNRIGHTEOUS. --JOB XXVII. 7.
When we last addressed our readers now visible in the character of British