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Percy Bysshe Shelley.

MUSIC, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory

Odors, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,

Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;

And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE.

William Julius Mickle.1

AND are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?

Is this a time to think of wark?

Mak haste, lay by your wheel;
Is this the time to spin a thread,
When Colin's at the door!
Reach me my cloak, I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a' ;

There's little pleasure in the house

When our gudeman's awa.

1 This beautiful song is often attributed to Jean Adams, a contemporary of Mickle.

And gie to me my bigonet,2

My bishop's satin gown;

For I maun tell the baillie's wife
That Colin's come to town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
My stockings pearly blue;
It's a' to pleasure my gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle3 pot,
Gie little Kate her button gown,

And Jock his Sunday coat;

And mak their shoon as black as slaes,*
Their hose as white as snaw,
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's been long awa.

There's twa fat hens upo' the bank
Been fed this month and mair,
Mak haste and thraw5 their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;

And mak the table neat and clean,

Gar ilka thing look braw,

For wha can tell how Colin far'd

When he was far awa?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,

His breath like caller' air,

His very foot has music in't

As he comes up the stair!

2 bigonet, small cap.

3 muckle, great. 6 Gar ilka, make everything look fine.

4 slaes, sloes.
caller, fresh.

5 thraw, wring.

And will I see his face again,
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.

If Colin's weel, and weel content,
I hae nae mair to crave:
Any gin I live to keep him sae,
I'm blest aboon the lave.
And will I see his face again,
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a';

There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa.

JOCK O' HAZELDEAN.

Sir Walter Scott.

"WHY weep ye by the tide, ladie?
Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye sall be his bride;

And ye sall be his bride, ladie,

Sae comely to be seen

But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

8 greet, cry, weep.

"Now let this wilfu' grief be done,

And dry that cheek so pale;
Young Frank is chief of Errington,
And lord of Langley-dale;
His step is first in peaceful ha',
His sword in battle keen"

But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

"A chain of gold ye sall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair;
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
Nor palfrey fresh and fair;

And you, the foremost o' them a',

Shall ride our forest queen

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But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,

The tapers glimmer'd fair;

The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
And dame and knight are there.

They sought her baith by bower and ha';

The ladie was not seen!

She's o'er the Border, and awa'

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.1

1 The first stanza of this ballad is ancient. The others were written for

Mr. Campbell's Albyn's Anthology, 1816.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

Thomas Campbell.

YE Mariners of England!

That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,

The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;

While the battle rages loud and long
And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave!

For the deck it was their field of fame,

And Ocean was their grave:

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,

Your manly hearts shall glow,

As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long
And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,

Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak

She quells the floods below,