The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange groves and myrtle bowers,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours
With my loved lute's romantic sound;
Of crowns of living laurel weave
For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay
Sung in the silent greenwood shade:
These simple joys that never fail
Shall bind me to my native vale.

Yestreen when to the trembling string

The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard nor saw.
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sighed, and said amang them a',
"Ye are na Mary Morison."

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace
Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

ROBERT BURNS.

[1759-1796.]

OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW.

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west;

For there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo'e best.

There wild woods grow, and rivers row,
And monie a hill 's between;
But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair;

I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air;

There's not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green,-
There's not a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.

MARY MORISON.

O MARY, at thy window be!

It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor: How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison.

HIGHLAND MARY.

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 bloomed the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped 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' monie a vow and locked embrace
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,

We tore ourselves asunder;
But, 0, 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!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips
I aft hae kissed 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.

at sea,

And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me. My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;

I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee', Said, "Jeannie, for their sakes, will ye na marry me?"

My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back;

But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;

The ship it was a wrack-why didna Jamie dee?

Or why do I live to say, Wae 's me?

My father urged me sair : my mither didna speak;

But she look it in my face till my heart was like to break;

They gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea;

And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to

ine.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door,

I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he,

Till he said, "I'm come home, love, to marry thee."

O, sair did we greet, and muckle say of a'! I gie'd him but ae kiss, and bade him gang awa':

I wish I were dead! but I'm no like to

dee;

And why do I live to cry, Wae 's me?

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;

But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, For auld Robin Gray, he is kind to me.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

[1757-1827.]

THE TIGER.

TIGER! Tiger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

Burned the fire of thine eyes?
In what distant deeps or skies
What the hand dare seize the fire?
On what wings dare he aspire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thine heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer, what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see?
Did He, who made the Lamb, make thee?

Tiger Tiger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

TO THE MUSES.

WHETHER on Ida's shady brow

Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, which now From ancient melodies have ceased;

Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,

Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air, Where the melodious winds have birth,

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,

Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wandering in many a coral grove, Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry,

How have you left the ancient lore
That bards of old engaged in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few.

I hear below the water roar,

The mill wi' clacking din,
And Lucky scolding frae the door,
To ca' the bairnies in.

O, no! sad and slow,

These are nae sounds for rue;
The shadow of our trysting bush
It creeps sae drearily.

I coft yestreen, frae chapman Tam,
A snood o' bonnie blue,

And promised, when our trysting cam',
To tie it round her brow.

O, no! sad and slow,

The mark it winna' pass;
The shadow o' that dreary bush
Is tethered on the grass.

O now I see her on the way!

She's past the witch's knowe; She's climbing up the brownies brae; My heart is in a lowe,

O, no! 't is not so,

'Tis glamrie I hae seen;

The shadow o' that hawthorn bush
Will move nae mair till e'en.

My book o' grace I'll try to read,

Though conned wi' little skill; When Collie barks I'll raise my head,

And find her on the hill.

O, no! sad and slow,

The time will ne'er be gane;
The shadow o' our trysting bush
Is fixed like ony stane.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

[1762-1831.]

THE GOWAN GLITTERS ON THE
SWARD.

THE gowan glitters on the sward,
The lav'rock's in the sky,

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

O, no! sad and slow,

And lengthened on the ground;
The shadow of our trysting bush
It wears so slowly round.

My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west,
My lambs are bleating near;
But still the sound that I love best,
Alack! I canna hear.

O, no! sad and slow,

The shadow lingers still;
And like a lanely ghaist I stand,
And croon upon the hill.

LADY CAROLINE NAIRN.

[1766-1845.]

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

I'm wearin' awa', Jean,
Like snaw in a thaw, Jean,
I'm wearin' awa'

To the Land o' the Leal.
There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
The day is ever fair

In the Land o' the Leal.

You've been leal and true, Jean, Your task is ended noo, Jean, And I'll welcome you

To the Land o' the Leal.