For all the storm he wadna stay,
For seeking of his bonny lady.

And he has ridden o'er field and fell,

Through moor, and moss, and many a mire; His spurs of steel were sair to bide,

And from her four feet flew the fire.

"My bonny gray, now play your part!
If
ye be the steed that wins my dearie,
With corn and hay ye'll be fed for aye,
And never spur shall make you wearie."

The gray was a mare, and a right gude mare; But when she wan the Annan Water,

She could not have ridden the ford that night Had a thousand merks been wadded at her.

"O boatman, boatman, put off your boat, Put off your boat for golden money!" But for all the gold in fair Scotland,

He dared not take him through to Annie.

"Oh, I was sworn so late yestreen,
Not by a single oath, but mony!
I'll cross the drumly stream to-night,
Or never could I face my honey."

The side was stey, and the bottom deep,
From bank to brae the water pouring;
The bonny gray mare she swat for fear,

For she heard the water-kelpy roaring.

He spurred her forth into the flood,

I wot she swam both strong and steady;

But the stream was broad, and her strength did fail,

And he never saw his bonny lady!

Unknown.

THE SAILOR'S WIFE

AND are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Ye jades, lay by your wheel;
Is this the time to spin a thread,
When Colin 's at the door?

Reach down 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.

And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop's satin gown;

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

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle 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 coop

Been fed this month and mair;
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;

And spread the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw,

For wha can tell how Colin fared
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
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:

And 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.

William Julius Mickle

THE BLIND BOY

Он, say what is that thing called Light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy ;
What are the blessings of the Sight:
Oh, tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see;
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make
Whene'er I sleep or play;

And could I ever keep awake
With me 't were always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy:
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.

Colley Cibber.

THE NIGHTINGALE IN THE STUDY

"COME forth!" my catbird calls to me,
"And hear me sing a cavatina

That, in this old familiar tree,
Shall hang a garden of Alcina.

"These buttercups shall brim with wine Beyond all Lesbian juice or Massic; May not New England be divine?

My ode to ripening summer classic?

"Or, if to me you will not hark,

By Beaver Brook a thrush is ringing, Till all the alder-coverts dark

Seem sunshine-dappled with his singing.

"Come out beneath the unmastered sky,
With its emancipating spaces,
And learn to sing as well as I,
Without premeditated graces.

"What boot your many-volumed gains,
Those withered leaves forever turning,
To win, at best, for all your pains,
A nature mummy-wrapt in learning?

"The leaves wherein true wisdom lies

On living trees the sun are drinking; Those white clouds, drowsing through the skies, Grew not so beautiful by thinking.