0, waly, waly, but love be bonny, A little time while it is new ; 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, 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, Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe ! 0, dinna mind my words, Willie, I downa seek to blame ; And dree a warld's shame! 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, Or be as I should be. The heart that still is thine, 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 ; To sab and greet my fill. Let me shed by your hair, I never sall see mair ! For the last time in my life, A mither, yet nae wife. And press it mair and mair, Sae strang is its despair. When we thegither met, That our first tryst was set ! 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 ; That ne'er luvit ane but thee ! That file my yellow hair, WILLIAM MOTHERWELL BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH. RESIGNATION. But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, Clothed with celestial grace ; Shall we behold her face. And though, at times, impetuous with emotion And anguish long suppressed, That cannot be at rest, We will be patient, and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay ; The grief that must have way. Assume this dark disguise. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. BURIED TO-DAY. We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ; Amid these earthly damps May be heaven's distant lamps. February 23, 1858. There is no Death! What seems so is transition : This life of mortal breath 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 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. Nor pain, nor grief, nor anxious fear, LINES 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. |