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“A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid,

A weary lot is thine!
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,

And press the rue for wine!
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,

A feather of the blue,
A doublet of the Lincoln green,-
No more of me you knew,

My love!
No more of me you knew.

“This morn is merry June, I trow,

The rose is budding fain;
But she shall bloom in winter snow,

Ere we two meet again.”
He turned his charger as he spake,

Upon the river shore,

his bridle-reins a shake,
Said, “Adieu for evermore,

My love!
And adieu for evermore."




YE banks and braes and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie!
There simmer first unfauld her robes,

And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel

O’ my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,

How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade

I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden hours on angel wings

Flew o’er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life

Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace

Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder;
But, O! fell Death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,

That wraps my Highland Mary!

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O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance

That dwelt on me sae kindly;
And mouldering now in silent dust

That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core

Shall live my Highland Mary.

R. Burns.



MINE be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet-gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze
And point with taper spire to Heaven.

Samuel Rogers.




SWEET and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon:
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

Alfred Tennyson.

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