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0, waly, waly, but love be bonny,

A little time while it is new ;
But when 't is auld it waxeth cauld,

And fades away like the morning dew. 0, wherefore should I busk my head ?

Or wherefore should I kame my hair ? For my true love has me forsook,

And says he'll never love me mair. Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed ;

The sheets shall ne'er be fyled by me; Saint Anton's well shall be my drink,

Since my true love has forsaken me. Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,

And shake the green leaves off the tree ? O gentle death, when wilt thou come ?

For of my life I'm weary. 'T is not the frost that freezes fell,

Nor blawing snaw's inclemency ; 'T is not sic cauld that makes me cry,

But my love's heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town, We

e were a comely sight to see ; My love was clad in the black velvet,

And I my sell in cramasie. But had I wist, before I kissed,

That love had been sae ill to win, I'd locked my heart in a case of gold,

And pinned it with a silver pin. 0, 0, if my young babe were born,

And set upon the nurse's knee, And I my sell were dead and gane,

And the green grass growin' over me !

Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile,
And when thou wakest sweitly smile :
But smile not, as thy father did,
To cozen maids ; nay, God forbid !
But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire,
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. I cannae chuse, but ever will Be luving to thy father stil: Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde, My luve with him maun stil abyde : In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae, Mine hart can neir depart him frae.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. But doe not, doe not, prettie mine, To faynings fals thine hart incline; Be loyal to thy luver trew, And nevir change hir for a new ; If gude or faire, of hir have care, For women's banning's wonderous sair.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine ; My babe and I'll together live, He 'll comfort me when cares doe grieve; My babe and I right saft will ly, And quite forget man's cruelty.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth That ever kist a woman's mouth !

ANONYMOUS ,

I wish all maids be warned by mee,
Nevir to trust man's curtesy ;
For if we doe but chance to bow,
They'll use us than they care not how.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see the weipe.

0, dinna mind my words, Willie,

I downa seek to blame ;
But 0, it's hard to live, Willie,

And dree a warld's shame!
Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek,

And hailin' ower your chin : Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,

For sorrow, and for sin ?

ANONYMOUS.

MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE.

I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,

And sick wi' a' I see,
I canna live as I ha'e lived,

Or be as I should be.
But fauld unto your heart, Willie,

The heart that still is thine,
And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek

Ye said was red langsyne.

A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,

A sair stoun' through my heart; O, haud me up and let me kiss

Thy brow ere we twa pairt. Anither, and anither yet!

How fast my life-strings break !Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirk-yard

Step lichtly for my sake!

My heid is like to rend, Willie,

My heart is like to break; I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,

I'm dyin' for your sake ! 0, lay your cheek to mine, Willie,

Your hand on my briest-bane, – O, say ye'll think on me, Willie,

When I am deid and gane ! It's vain to comfort me, Willie,

Sair grief maun ha'e its will ;
But let me rest upon your briest

To sab and greet my fill.
Let me sit on your knee, Willie,

Let me shed by your hair,
And look into the face, Willie,

I never sall see mair !
I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,

For the last time in my life,
A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,

A mither, yet nae wife.
Ay, press your hand upon my heart,

And press it mair and mair,
Or it will burst the silken twine,

Sae strang is its despair.
O, wae 's me for the hour, Willie,

When we thegither met,
O, wae 's me for the time, Willie,

That our first tryst was set !
0, wae's me for the loanin' green

Where we were wont to gae, And wae's me for the destinie

That gart me luve thee sae !

The lav'rock in the lift, Willie,

That lilts far ower our heid, Will sing the morn as merrilie

Abune the clay-cauld deid ; And this green turf we 're sittin' on,

Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen, Will hap the heart that luvit thee

As warld has seldom seen.

But 0, remember me, Willie,

On land where'er ye be ;
And O, think on the leal, leal heart,

That ne'er luvit ane but thee !
And O, think on the cauld, cauld mools

That file my yellow hair,
That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin
Ye never sall kiss mair!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL

BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH.

RESIGNATION.

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,

Clothed with celestial grace ;
There is no flock, however watched and tended, And beautiful with all the soul's expansion
But one dead lamb is there !

Shall we behold her face.
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But has one vacant chair !

And though, at times, impetuous with emotion

And anguish long suppressed,
The air is full of farewells to the dying, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
And mournings for the dead ;

That cannot be at rest,
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted !

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We may not wholly stay ;
Let us be patient! These severe afflictions By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
Not from the ground arise,

The grief that must have way.
But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

BURIED TO-DAY.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ;

Amid these earthly damps
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers

May be heaven's distant lamps.

February 23, 1858.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition :

This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

Whose portal we call Death.

BURIED to-day.

When the soft green buds are bursting out,

And up on the south-wind comes a shout
Of village boys and girls at play
In the mild spring evening gray.

Taken away

She is not dead, the child of our affection,

Sturdy of heart and stout of limb, But gone unto that school

From eyes that drew halftheir light from him, Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And put low, low underneath the clay, And Christ himself doth rule.

In his spring, - on this spring day.

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Nor pain, nor grief, nor anxious fear,

LINES
Invade thy bounds ; no mortal woes
Can reach the peaceful sleeper here,

TO THE MEMORY OF ANNIE,” WHO DIED AT MILAN, While angels watch the soft repose.

JUNE 6, 1860. "Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou ! whom seek

est thou ! She, supposing him be the ener, saith unto him, So Jesus slept; God's dying Son

Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid Passed through the grave, and blest the bed : him." – JOHN XX. 15. Rest here, blest saint, till from his throne In the fair gardens of celestial peace The morning break, and pierce the shade.

Walketh a gardener in meekness clad ;

Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks, Break from his throne, illustrious morn ;

And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad. Attend, 0 earth, his sovereign word ; Restore thy trust; a glorious form

Fair are the silent foldings of his robes, Shall then arise to meet the Lord.

Falling with saintly calmness to his feet ; And when he walks, each floweret to his will

With living pulse of sweet accord doth beat.

DR. ISAAC WATTS.

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