'Awake!' she cried, 'thy True Love calls!
Come from her midnight grave;
Now, let thy pity hear the Maid,
Thy love refused to save!

This is the mirk and fearful hour,
When injured ghosts complain;
And dreary graves give up their dead,
To haunt the faithless Swain.

'Bethink thee, WILLIAM! of thy fault,
Thy pledge, and broken oath!
And give me back my maiden vow;
And give me back my troth!

'How could you say, my face was fair;
And yet that face forsake?

How could you win my virgin heart;
Yet leave that heart to break?

'How could you promise love to me; And not that promise keep?

Why did you swear, mine eyes were bright; Yet leave those eyes to weep?

'How could you say, my lip was sweet,

And made the scarlet pale?

And why did I, young witless Maid!
Believe the flattering tale?

'That face, alas! no more is fair;
These lips, no longer red;

Dark are mine eyes, now closed in death;
And every charm is fled!

'The hungry worm, my sister is!

This winding sheet I wear!
And cold and weary lasts our night,
Till that at Last Morn appear!

'But, hark! The cock has warned me hence! A long and last Adieu!

Come, see, false man! how low she lies,

That died for love of you!'

Now, birds did sing, and Morning smile
And shew her glistening head;
Pale WILLIAM shook in ev'ry limb;
Then, raving, left his bed.

He hied him to the fatal place,
Where MARGARET's body lay;

And stretched him on the green grass turf,
That wrapped her breathless clay.

And thrice he called on MARGARET'S name!
And thrice he wept full sore!

Then laid his cheek to the cold earth;
And word spake never more.

GIVE me a Lass with a lump of land;
And we, for life, shall gang together!
Foolish, or wise, I'll ne'er demand!

Or black, or white, it makes not whether!

I'm off with Wit! and Beauty will fade!

And Blood alone is not worth a shilling! But she that's rich, her market 's made; For ev'ry charm about her is killing!

Give me a Lass with a lump of land;
And, in my bosom, I'll hug my treasure!
If I had once her gold in my hand;

Should love turn dead, it will find pleasure!

Laugh on who likes; but there 's my hand!

I hate, with poortith, though bonny, to meddle! Unless they bring cash, or a lump of land; They'se never get me to dance to their fiddle!

There's meikle good love in bands and bags!
And silver and gold 's a sweet complexion!
But Beauty, and Wit, and Virtue, in rags,
Have lost the art of gaining affection!

LOVE tips his arrows with woods and parks,

And castles, and riggs, and moors, and meadows;

And nothing can catch our modern Sparks
But well-tochered Lasses, or jointured Widows!

BONNY CHRISTY.

'How sweetly smells the simmer green!
Sweet taste the peach and cherry!
Painting and Order please our een;
And Claret makes us merry!
But finest colours, fruits, and flowers,
And wine, though I be thirsty,
Lose a' their charms and weaker powers
Compared with those of CHRISTY!

'When wand'ring o'er the flow'ry Park,
No nat'ral beauty wanting;
How lightsome is 't to hear the lark,
And birds in consort chanting!
But if my CHRISTY tunes her voice,
I'm rapt in admiration!

My thoughts with ecstasies rejoice,
And drap the hale creation!

'Whene'er she smiles a kindly glance,

I take the happy omen;
And aften mint to make advance,
Hoping she'll prove a woman:
But, dubious of my ain desert,
My sentiments I smother:

With secret sighs I vex my heart,
For fear she love another.'

Thus sang blate EDIE by a burn.
His CHRISTY did o'erhear him:
She doughtna let her Lover mourn;
But, ere he wist, drew near him.
She spake her favour with a look,
Which left nae room to doubt her.
He wisely his white minute took;
And flang his arms about her.

6

My CHRISTY! Witness, bonny stream!
Sic joys frae tears arising!

I wish this may na be a dream!

O, love the maist surprising!'
Time was too precious now for tauk!
This point of a' his wishes,
He wadna with set speeches bauk;
But wair'd it a' on kisses.

THE POET'S WISH.

Quid dedicatum poscit APOLLINEM

Vates?

'Frae great APOLLO, Poet say,

HOR.

What is thy wish? What wadst thou hae,

When thou bows at his shrine?'

Not Carse o' Gowrie's fertile field;

Nor a' the flocks the Grampians yield,

That are baith sleek and fine: