But on her bosom left his life,
That was so truly hearted.

The lords and nobles when they saw
The end of these events,
The other sisters unto death
They doomed by consents;
And being dead, their crowns they left
Unto the next of kin:

Thus have you seen the fall of pride,
And disobedient sin.

TAKE THY OLD CLOAK ABOUT
THEE.

This winters weather itt waxeth cold,
And frost doth freese on every hill,
And Boreas blowes his blasts soe bold,
That all our cattell are like to spill;
Bell my wiffe, who loves noe strife,
Shee sayd unto me quietlye,
Rise up, and save cow Cumbockes liffe,
Man, put thine old cloake about thee.

He.

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5

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15

to the

men;

In the feare of God I trow they bee; And why wilt thou thyselfe misken? Man, take thine old cloake about thee. 40 He.

O Bell my wiffe, why dost thou 'floute!' Now is nowe, and then was then: Seeke now all the world throughout,

Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen. They are cladd in blacke, greene, yellowe, or 'gray,'

Soe far above their owne degree: Once in my life Ile 'doe as they,' For Ile have a new cloake about mee. She.

King Stephen was a worthy peere,

His breeches cost him but a crowne, He held them sixpence all too deere; Therefore he calld the taylor Lowne. He was a wight of high renowne.

45

50

And thouse but of a low degree:
Itt's pride that putts this countrye downe, 35
Man, take thine old cloake about thee.
He.

Bell my wife she loves not strife,
Yet she will lead me if she can;

And oft, to live a quiet life,

I am forced to yield, though Ime good

Itt's not for a man with a Woman to threape,

Unlesse he first gave oer the plea:

As wee began wee now will leave,
And Ile take mine old cloake about

mee.

SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST.

There came a ghost to Margaret's door,
With many a grievous grone,

And ay he tirled at the pin;
But answer made she none.

Is this my father Philip?
Or is't my brother John?
Or is't my true love Willie,
From Scotland new come home?

'Tis not thy father Philip;

Nor yet thy brother John:
But 'tis thy true love Willie
From Scotland new come home,

O sweet Margret! O dear Margret!
I pray thee speak to mee:
Give me my faith and troth, Margret,
As I gave it to thee.

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Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get,

Of me shalt nevir win,'
Till that thou come within my bower,
And kiss my cheek and chin.

If I should come within thy bower,
I am no earthly man:

And should I kiss thy rosy lipp,
Thy days will not be lang.

O sweet Margret, O dear Margret,
I pray thee speak to mee:

Give me my faith and troth, Margret,
As I gave it to thee.

Thy faith and troth thou'se nevir get, 'Of me shalt nevir win,'

Till thou take me to yon kirk yard,
And wed me with a ring.

My bones are buried in a kirk yard
Afar beyond the sea,
And it is but my sprite, Margret,
That's speaking now to thee.

She stretched out her lily-white hand,
As for to do her best:

Hae there your faith and troth, Willie, God send your soul good rest.

ROBERT

ROBERT BURNS, Scotland's national bard, the son of a poor farmer, was born in 1759 in the parish of Alloway, near Ayr. His father gave him what education he could afford, but that was very slight indeed; when he left school he possessed only a few books, among which were The Spectator,' Pope's Works, Allan Ramsay, and a collection of English songs: but these few he studied thoroughly. In 1786 Burns published his first volume, which created a great sensation, and the impatience of the public could scarcely be kept within bounds for the third edition. After this success he took the farm of Ellisland near Dumfries, and married. In 1788 he obtained the situation of

60

O stay, my only true love, stay,
The constant Margret cried:
Wan grew her cheeks, she closed her cen,
Stretch'd her saft limbs, and died.

Exciseman, in which, however, on account of his

convivial habits, he had no chance of promotion, rather

1791 he retired to Dumfries, where he managed to live upon his paltry salary of L. 70 a year. He then published a third edition of his works, with the new poem of "Tam O'Shanter' and other pieces composed on his farm at Ellisland. He died in 1796, aged 37 years. His best known productions are his 'Cotter's Saturday Night' and 'Tam O'Shanter,' but the feeling of the author is not so well expressed in them as in his poem "To a mouse on turning up her nest with a plough, and some of his smaller and less known productions, in which his pathos and original inspiration are strongly marked.

Then ty'd him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgery.
They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim,
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him farther woe,
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller us'd him worst of all,

For he crush'd him 'tween two stones. And they ha'e ta'en his very heart's blood, 45 And drank it round and round; And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound. John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of noble enterprise, For if you do but taste his blood, Twill make your courage rise. "Twill make a man forget his woe;

"Twill heighten all his joy:

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"Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 55 Tho' the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;

And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland.

AFTON WATER.

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dream.

The birth-place of valour, the country of worth;

Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd
with snow;
straths and green valleys
below;

Farewell to the

Farewell to the Farewell to the

10

forests and wild-hanging

woods; torrents and loud-pouring floods: Highlands, my heart is not here; Highlands, a-chasing the deer;

My heart's in the

My heart's in the

Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither:
But we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go;
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.

BANNOCHburn.

Robert Bruce's address to his army.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to glorious victorie!

Now's the day, and now's the hour-
See the front o' battle lower;
See approach proud Edward's power—
Edward! chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae (1) base as be a slave?

Traitor! coward! turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman fa', (2)
Caledonian! on wi' me!

By oppression's woes and pains!
By our sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be-shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!

Liberty's in every blow!

Forward! let us do, or die!

LORD GREGORY.

O mirk, (3) mirk is this midnight hour, And loud the tempest's roar;

A waefu' (4) wanderer seeks thy tow'r,
Lord Gregory, ope thy door!

An exile frae (5) her father's ha',(6)
And a' (7) for loving thee;

At least some pity on me shaw,
If love it may na be.

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15

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15

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Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, By bonnie Irwine-side,

Where first I own'd that virgin-love

I lang, lang had denied?

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(1) So. (2) To fall. (3) Dark. (4) Woeful. (5) From. (6) Hall. (7) All.

What Aikin in a cottage would have been; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween.

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The short'ning winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The black'ning train o' craws to their

repose; The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the muir, his course does hameward bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; 20 Th'expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher (1) thro' To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee, His wee-bit ingle, (2) blinkin' bonnilie, His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile,

The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 25 Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.

(1) Stagger. (2) Hearth, fireplace.