'Lay on him the curse of the wither'd heart,
The curse of the sleepless eye;

Till he wish and pray that his life would part,
Nor yet find leave to die!'

III

'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood,
Though the birds have still'd their singing ;
The evening blaze doth Alice raise,
And Richard is fagots bringing.

Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf,
Before Lord Richard stands,
And as he cross'd and bless'd himself,
'I fear not sign,' quoth the grisly elf,
'That is made with bloody hands.'

But out then spoke she, Alice Brand,
That woman void of fear,-

'And if there's blood upon his hand,
'Tis but the blood of deer.'

-'Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood!

It cleaves unto his hand,

The stain of thine own kindly blood,
The blood of Ethert Brand.'

Then forward stepp'd she, Alice Brand,
And made the holy sign,-

'And if there's blood on Richard's hand,
A spotless hand is mine.

'And I conjure thee, Demon elf,

By Him whom Demons fear,
To show us whence thou art thyself,
And what thine errand here?'

IV

"Tis merry, 'tis merry, in Fairy-land, When fairy birds are singing,

When the court doth ride by their monarch's side, With bit and bridle ringing:

'And gaily shines the Fairy-land—
But all is glistening show,

Like the idle gleam that December's beam
Can dart on ice and snow.

'And fading, like that varied gleam,
Is our inconstant shape,

Who now like knight and lady seem,
And now like dwarf and ape.

'It was between the night and day,
When the Fairy King has power,
That I sunk down in a sinful fray,
And 'twixt life and death, was snatch'd away
To the joyless Elfin bower.

'But wist I of a woman bold,

Who thrice my brow durst sign, I might regain my mortal mould,

As fair a form as thine.'

She cross'd him once-she cross'd him twiceThat lady was so brave;

The fouler grew his goblin hue,

The darker grew the cave.

She cross'd him thrice, that lady bold!

-He rose beneath her hand

The fairest knight on Scottish mould,

Her brother, Ethert Brand!

-Merry it is in good greenwood,

When the mavis and merle are singing; But merrier were they in Dumfermline gray When all the bells were ringing.

SIR W. SCOTT.

O, wert thou in the cauld blast

O, WERT thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,

My plaidie to the angry airt,

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee.

Or did misfortune's bitter storms

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,

To share it a', to share it a'.

Or were I in the wildest waste
Of earth and air, of earth and air,
The desart were a paradise,

If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o' the globe,

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
The only jewel in my crown

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

I love my Jean

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,

I dearly like the west,

For there the bonie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best :

BURNS.

There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
And monie a hill between ;
But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair;
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air :

There's not a bonie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green;

There's not a bonie bird that sings

But minds me o' my Jean.

BURNS.

There'll never be Peace till Jamie comes Hame

A SONG

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey :
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars,
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars;
We dare na weel say't but we ken wha's to blame-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd;
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

Now life is a burden that bows me down,
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
But till my last moment my words are the same-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

BURNS.

The Banks o' Doon

YE flowery banks o' bonie Doon,
How can ye blume sae fair!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu' o' care.

Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonie bird,

That sings upon the bough ;

Thou minds me o' the happy days,

When my fause luve was true.

Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonie bird,

That sings beside thy mate;

For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon,

To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o' its love,
And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose
Frae off its thorny tree;

And my fause luver staw the rosc,
But left the thorn wi' me.

BURNS.

As Slow our Ship

As slow our ship her foamy track
Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still looked back
To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
So loth we part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts, where'er we rove,
To those we've left behind us!

When, round the bowl, of vanished years
We talk, with joyous seeming,
With smiles, that might as well be tears,
So faint, so sad their beaming;
While memory brings us back again
Each early tie that twined us,
Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then
To those we've left behind us!

And when, in other climes, we meet
Some isle or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,
And nought but love is wanting;
We think how great had been our bliss,
If Heaven had but assigned us
To live and die in scenes like this,
With some we've left behind us!
As travellers oft look back, at eve,
When eastward darkly going,
To gaze upon that light they leave

Still faint behind them glowing,-
So, when the close of pleasure's day
To gloom hath near consigned us,
We turn to catch one fading ray
Of joy that's left behind us.

A red, red Rose

MOORE.

O, MY luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O, my luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.