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And like the bird that haunts the thorn, So merrily sung the livelong day.

"If that my beauty is but small,

Among court ladies all despised,

Why didst thou rend it from that hall, Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized?

"And when you first to me made suit, How fair I was, you oft would say! And proud of conquest, plucked the fruit, Then left the blossom to decay.

"Yes! now neglected and despised,
The rose is pale, the lily 's dead;
But he, that once their charms so prized,
Is sure the cause those charms are fled.

"For know, when sick'ning grief doth prey, And tender love 's repaid with scorn,

The sweetest beauty will decay,

What floweret can endure the storm?

"At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne,
Where every lady 's passing rare,
That Eastern flowers, that shame the sun,
Are not so glowing, not so fair.

"Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds Where roses and where lilies vie,

To seek a primrose, whose pale shades
Must sicken when those gauds are by?

"Mong rural beauties I was one,

Among the fields wild flowers are fair; Some country swain might me have won, And thought my beauty passing rare.

"But, Leicester, (or I much am wrong,) Or 't is not beauty lures thy vows; Rather ambition's gilded crown

Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.

"Then, Leicester, why, again I plead,

(The injured surely may repine,)— Why didst thou wed a country maid, When some fair princess might be thine?

"Why didst thou praise my humble charms,
And, oh! then leave them to decay?
Why didst thou win me to thy arms,
Then leave to mourn the livelong day?

"The village maidens of the plain
Salute me lowly as they go;
Envious they mark my silken train,
Nor think a Countess can have woe.

"The simple nymphs! they little know
How far more happy 's their estate;
To smile for joy than sigh for woe-
To be content-than to be great.

"How far less blest am I than themDaily to pine and waste with care!

Like the poor plant, that, from its stem
Divided, feels the chilling air.

"Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy
The humble charms of solitude;
Your minions proud my peace destroy,
By sullen frowns or pratings rude.

"Last night, as sad I chanced to stray,
The village death-bell smote my ear;
They winked aside, and seemed to say,
'Countess, prepare, thy end is near.'

"And now, while happy peasants sleep,
Here I sit lonely and forlorn;
No one to soothe me as I weep,
Save Philomel on yonder thorn.

"My spirits flag-my hopes decay

Still that dread death-bell smites my ear, And many a boding seems to say,

'Countess, prepare, thy end is near!'"

Thus sore and sad that lady grieved,
In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear,
And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved,
And let fall many a bitter tear.

And ere the dawn of day appeared,
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear,
Full many a piercing scream was heard,
And many a cry of mortal fear.

The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, An aerial voice was heard to call, And thrice the raven flapped its wing Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.

The mastiff howled at village door,

The oaks were shattered on the green; Woe was the hour, for nevermore That hapless Countess e'er was seen.

And in that manor now no more

Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball; For ever since that dreary hour

Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.

The village maids, with fearful glance,
Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall,
Nor ever lead the merry dance,

Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.

Full many a traveller oft hath sighed,
And pensive wept the Countess' fall,
As wandering onward they 've espied
The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.

WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE

WALY, WALY.

O WALY, Waly, up the bank,

O waly, waly, doun the brae,

And waly, waly, yon burn-side,

Where I and my love were wont to gae!

I leaned my back unto an aik,

I thocht it was a trustie tree,
But first it bowed and syne it brak',-
Sae my true love did lichtlie me.

O waly, waly, but love be bonnie
A little time while it is new!
But when it 's auld it waxeth cauld,
And fadeth awa' like the morning dew.
O wherefore should I busk my heid,
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forsook,
And says he 'll never lo'e me mair.

Noo Arthur's Seat sall be my bed,

The sheets sall ne'er be pressed by me; Saint Anton's well sall be my drink; Since my true love's forsaken me. Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves off the tree? O gentle death, when wilt thou come? For of my life I am wearie.

"T is not the frost that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie,

"T is not sic cauld that makes me cry;

But my love's heart grown cauld to me. When we cam' in by Glasgow toun,

We were a comely sicht to see;
My love was clad in the black velvet,
An' I mysel' in cramasie.

But had I wist before I kissed

That love had been so ill to win,

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