GENTLE HUGH HERRIES.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Go seek in the wild glen

Where streamlets are falling,

Go seek on the lone hill

Where curlews are calling, Go seek when the clear stars

Shine down without number,

For there will ye find him
My true love in slumber.

They sought in the wild glen--
The glen was forsaken;
They sought on the mountain,

'Mang lang lady-bracken;
And sore, sore they hunted
My true love to find him,
With the strong bands of iron
To fetter and bind him.

Yon green hill I'll give thee,
Where the falcon is flying,
To show me the den where

This bold traitor's lying

O make me of Nithsdale's
Fair princedom the heiress,

Is that worth one smile of

My gentle Hugh Herries?

The white bread, the sweet milk,
And ripe fruits I found him,
And safe in my fond arms

I clasp'd and I wound him;
I warn you go not where
My true lover tarries,
For sharp smites the sword of
My gentle Hugh Herries.

They rein'd their proud war-steeds,
Away they went sweeping,
And behind them dames wail'd, and

Fair maidens went weeping;
But deep in yon wild glen,

'Mang banks of blae-berries, I dwell with my loved one, My gentle Hugh Herries.

THE SHEPHERD'S SON..

JOANNA BAILLIE.

The gowan glitters on the sward,
The lavrock's in the sky,

And Colley on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.

Oh no! sad and slow!

I hear nae welcome sound,

The shadow of our trysting bush
It wears sae slowly round.

My sheep-bell tinkles from the west,
My lambs are bleating near,
But still the sound that I lo'e best,
Alack! I canna hear.

Ah no! sad and slow!

The shadow lingers still,

And like a lanely ghaist I stand
And croon upon the hill.

I hear below the water roar,
The mill with clacking din;
And Lucky scolding frae her door,
To bring the bairnies in.

VOL. IV.

Oh no! sad and slow!

These are nae sounds for me;

R

The shadow of our trysting bush
It creeps sae drearilie.

I coft yestreen frae chapman Tam
A snood o' bonnie blue,
And promised, when our trysting cam,

To tye it round her brow.

Oh no! sad and slow!

The time it winna pass;

The shadow of that weary thorn

Is tether'd on the grass.

Oh! now I see her on the way!

She's past the witches' knowe;

She's climbing up the brownie's braeMy heart is in a lowe!

Oh no! 'tis not so!

'Tis glaumrie I hae seen;

The shadow of the hawthorn bush

Will move nae mair till e'en.

My book of grace I'll try to read,
Tho' conn'd wi' little skill,

When Colley barks I'll raise my head,

And find her on the hill!

Oh, no! sad and slow!

The time will ne'er be gane;

The shadow of the trysting bush

Is fix'd like ony stane.

CARLE, NOW THE KING'S COME!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

The news has flown frae mouth to mouth,
The North for ance has bang'd the South;
The deil a Scotsman's die of drouth,

Carle, now the King's come!

Auld England held him lang and fast;
And Ireland had a joyfu' cast;

But Scotland's turn is come at last

Carle, now the King's come!

Auld Reikie, in her rokela gray,

Thought never to have seen the day;

He's been a weary time away

But, Carle, now the King's conie!

She's skirling frae the Castle-hill;

The Carline's voice is grown sae shrill

Ye'll hear her at the Canon-mill,

Carle, now the King's come!

Up, bairns! she cries, baith grit and sma',
And busk ye for the weapon-shaw !—
Stand by me, and we'll bang them a'!

Carle, now the King's come!