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My kurtch I put upo' my head,
And dressed mysel' fu' braw;
I trow my heart was dough and wae,
When Jamie gade awa'.
But weel may the boatie row,
And lucky be her part,
And lightsome be the lassie's care
That yields an honest heart.

UNKNOWN.

GLENLOGIE.

THREESCOKE o' nobles rade up the king's ha',

But bonnie Glenlogie's the flower o' them a',

Wi' his milk-white steed and his bonnie

black e'e,

The next line that he read, the tear blindit his e'e;

But the last line that he read, he gart the table flee.

"Gar saddle the black horse, gar saddle the brown;

Gar saddle the swiftest steed e'er rade frae a town":

But lang ere the horse was drawn and brought to the green,

O, bonnie Glenlogie was twa mile his lane.

When he came to Glenfeldy's door, little mirth was there;

Bonnie Jean's mother was tearing her hair.

"Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, ye 're wel come," said she,

"Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, your Jeanie

to see.

"Glenlogie, dear mither, Glenlogie for Pale and wan was she, when Glenlogie

me!"

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gaed ben,

But red and rosy grew she, whene'er he sat down;

She turned awa' her head, but the smile was in her e'e,

"O, binna feared, mither, I'll maybe no dee."

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"Me haud my tongue for you, Guidwife! I'll be maister o' this house,

I saw it as plain as een could see,
An' I tell ye 't was a mouse!"

"If you're the maister o' the house,
It's I'm the mistress o' 't;

An' I ken best what 's i' the house,
Sae I tell ye 't was a rat."

"Weel, weel, Guidwife, gae mak the brose,
An' ca' it what ye please."
Sae up she gat an' made the brose,

While John sat toastin' his taes.

They suppit an' suppit an' suppit the brose,

An' aye their lips played smack ; They suppit an' suppit an' suppit the

brose

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THOMAS CHATTERTON. 79

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

[1751-1816.]

HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD
FRAMED.

HAD I a heart for falsehood framed,
I ne'er could injure you;
For though your tongue no promise
claimed,

To you no soul shall bear deceit,

Your charms would make me true:

No stranger offer wrong;
But friends in all the aged you'll meet,
And lovers in the young.

For when they learn that you have blest
Another with your heart,
They'll bid aspiring passion rest,
And act a brother's part.
Then, lady, dread not here deceit,
Nor fear to suffer wrong;
For friends in all the aged you 'll meet,
And brothers in the young.

THOMAS CHATTERTON.

[1752-1770.]

THE MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA.

O, SING unto my roundelay!

O, drop the briny tear with me! Dance no more at holiday,

Like a running river be.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Black his hair as the winter night,

White his neck as the summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light; Cold he lies in the grave below. My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought was he;
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O, he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing

In the briered dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares as they go. My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud,
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Here, upon my true-love's grave,
Shall the garish flowers be laid,
Nor one holy saint to save

All the sorrows of a maid.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll bind the briers
Round his holy corse to gre;
Elfin-fairy, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

Come with acorn cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's blood all away;
Life and all its good I scorn,

Dance by night, or feast by day.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
Water-witches, crowned with reytes,
Bear me to your deadly tide.
I die I come-my true-love waits.
Thus the damsel spake, and died.

GEORGE CRABBE.

[1754-1832.]

ISAAC ASHFORD.

NEXT to these ladies, but in naught allied,

A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. Noble he was, contemning all things mean,

His truth unquestioned and his soul

serene:

Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid; At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed:

Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;

Truth, simple truth, was written in his face;

Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,

Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he loved;

To bliss domestic he his heart resigned, And with the firmest, had the fondest mind.

Were others joyful, he looked smiling on, And gave allowance where he needed none; Good he refused with future ill to buy, Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh.

A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast No envy stung, no jealousy distressed (Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind

To miss one favor which their neighbors find);

Yet far was he from stoic pride removed; He felt humanely, and he warmly loved. I marked his action when his infant died, And his old neighbor for offence was tried; The still tears, stealing down that furrowed cheek,

Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak.

If pride were his, 't was not their vulgar

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