JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. SIR WALTER SCOTT. Why weep ye by the tide, ladye- But ay she loot the tears down fa For Jock of Hazeldean. Now let this wilful grief be done, And dry that cheek so pale, For Jock of Hazeldean. A chain of gold ye shall not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair, Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, Nor palfrey fresh and fair; And you the foremost of them a', But ay she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean. The kirk was deck'd at morning tide, The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, And knight and dame are there: They sought her both by bower and ha', The ladye was not seen- Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.. THE HAMEWARD SONG. HUGH AINSLIE. VOL. IV. Each whirl of the wheel, Each step brings me nearer And thae trees on that green, E'en the brutes they look social As gif they would crack, Seems to welcome me back. Is the hand that first fed us, And the cottage that bred us. And dear are the comrades With whom we once sported, And dearer the maiden Whose love we first courted: Joy's image may perish, E'en grief die away, But the scenes of our youth AWAKE, MY LOVE. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Awake, my love! ere morning's ray Or birds upon the boughs awake, Till green Arbigland's woodlands shake! She comb'd her curling ringlets down, Laced her green jupes and clasp'd her shoon, And from her home by Preston burn Came forth, the rival light of morn. The lark's song dropt, now lowne, now hush— Call'd from the misty mountain top. 'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day To hearken heaven, and bush, and brake, To see the smoke, in many a wreath, Yes, lovely one! and dost thou mark Tak'st thou from Nature's counsellor tongue The warning precept of her song? THE POET'S MORNING. JAMES HOGG. Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken! Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken! Deep the morn her draught has taken Of the babbling rivulet sheen, Far beyond the Ochel green; From her gauzy veil on high, Trills the laverock's melody; Round and round, from glen and grove, Pour a thousand hymns to love. The quail harps loud amid the clover, From the mountain whirrs the plover; Bat has hid, and heath-cock crowed, Courser neigh'd, and cattle lowed; |