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, "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, "Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds Where roses and where lilies vie, To seek a primrose, whose pale shades "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, "The village maidens of the plain "The simple nymphs! they little know "How far less blest am I than themDaily to pine and waste with care! Like the poor plant, that, from its stem "Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy "Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, "And now, while happy peasants sleep, "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, And ere the dawn of day appeared, 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, Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. Full many a traveller oft hath sighed, 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, O waly, waly, but love be bonnie 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; But had I wist before I kissed That love had been so ill to win, |