ΤΟ

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,"

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,

5

Mak haste and thraw their necks about,

That Colin weel may fare;

And mak the table neat and clean,

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.

5 thraw, wring.

? caller, fresh.

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.

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.