Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
Sae dauntingly gaed he,

He play'd a spring and danc'd it round,
Below the gallows tree.

FAREWELL, ye dungeons dark and strong,
The wretch's destinie!
M'Pherson's time will not be long
On yonder gallows tree.

O, what is death but parting breath?
On monie a bloody plain

I've dar'd his face, and in this place
I scorn him yet again!

Untie these bands from off my hands,
And bring to me my sword,

And there's no a man in all Scotland,
But I'll brave him at a word!

I've lived a life of sturt and strife;
I die by treacherie :

It burns my heart I must depart,
And not avengéd be,

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright,
And all beneath the sky!

May coward shame distain his name,

The wretch that dares not die !

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,

Sae dauntingly gaed he,

He play'd a spring and danc'd it round,
Below the gallows tree.

Robert Burns,

331

CHARLIE HE'S MY

DARLING

An' Charlie he's my darling,
My darling, my darling!
Charlie he's my darling,
The Young Chevalier!

'TWAS on a Monday morning,
Right early in the year,
That Charlie cam' to our town,
The Young Chevalier !

As he was walking up the street
The city for to view,

O, there he spied a bonie lass
The window lookin' through.

Sae light 's he jimpéd up the stair,
An' tirled at the pin!

An' wha sae ready as hersel
To let the laddie in ?

He set his Jenny on his knee,
A' in his Highland dress;

For brawlie weel he ken'd the way
To please a lassie best.

It's up yon heathery mountain,
An' down yon scroggy glen,
We daur na gang a-milking
For Charlie an' his men!

An' Charlie he's my darling,
My darling, my darling!
Charlie he's my darling,
The Young Chevalier!

332

MARY MORISON

O MARY, at thy window be-
It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor!
How blythely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,

Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison !

Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,

I sigh'd, and said amang them a':— 'Ye are na Mary Morison.'

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
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,

333

THE FAREWELL

It was a' for our rightfu' King
We left fair Scotland's strand :
It was a' for our rightfu' King
We e'er saw Irish land,
My dear-

We e'er saw Irish land.

Now a' is done that men can do,
And a' is done in vain,

My love and native land farewell,
For I maun cross the main,
My dear-

For I maun cross the main.

He turn'd him right and round about
Upon the Irish shore,

And gae his bridle-reins a shake,
With adieu for evermore,
My dear-

With adieu for evermore.

The sodger from the wars returns,
The sailor frae the main ;
But I hae parted frae my love,
Never to meet again,

My dear

Never to meet again.

When day is gane, and night is come,
And a' folk bound to sleep,

I think on him that 's far awa,
The lee-lang night, and weep,
My dear-

The lee-lang night, and weep.

334

Robert Burns.

LUCY

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,

A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye!

-Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and, O,

The difference to me!

T

William Wordsworth.

335

TO THE CUCKOO

O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.

O Cuckoo shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering voice?

While I am lying on the grass

Thy twofold shout I hear :

From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off and near.

Though babbling only to the Vale
Of sunshine and of flowers,

Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery:

The same whom in my schoolboy days
I listened to; that Cry

Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love--
Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet;

Can lie upon the plain

And listen, till I do beget

That golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace

Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, faery place:

That is fit home for thee!

William Wordsworth.