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25

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die ?
She that bears a noble mind
If not outward helps she find,
Thinks what with them he would do
Who without them dares her woo;

And unless that mind I see,
What care I though great she be?

30

Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair ;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;

35

If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;

For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?

G. Wither.

40

XLVIII.

CXXXII.

MELANCHOLY.

HENCE, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly :
There's nought in this life sweet
If man were wise to see't,
But only melancholy,

O sweetest Melancholy !
Welcome, folded arms, and fixéd eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound !
Fountain heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves !
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed save bats and owls !
A midnight bell, a parting groan !

These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ;
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

J. Fletcher.

XLIX.

CXXXIII.

THE FORSAKEN BRIDE.

O WALY waly up the bank,

And waly waly down the brae,
And waly waly yon burn-side

Where I and my Love wont to gae !
I leant my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trusty tree ;
But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,

Sae my true Love did lichtly me.

5

10

O waly waly, but love be bonny

A little time while it is new;
But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld

And fades awa' like morning dew.
O wherefore should I busk my head ?

Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true Love has me forsook,

And says he'll never loe me mair.

15

20

Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed ;

The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me:
St. Anton's well sall be my drink,

Since my true Love has forsaken me.
Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw

And shake the green leaves aff the tree ?
O gentle Death, when wilt thou come ?

For of my life I am wearse.

25

'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,

Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie ;
'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,

But my Love's heart grown cauld to me.
When we came in by Glasgow town

We were a comely sight to see ;

30

My Love was clad in black velvét,

And I mysell in cramasie.

35

But had 1 wist, before I kist,

That love had been sae ill to win ;
I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd

And pinn'd it with a siller pin.
And, O! if my young babe were born,

And set upon the nurse's knee,
And I mysell were dead and gane,
And the green grass growing over me!

Anon.

40

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5

Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,

And died to succour me !

O think na but my heart was sair
When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair : 10
I laid her down wi' meikle care

On fair Kirconnell lea.

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