For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck ava;

There's little pleasure in the house,

When our gudeman's awa.

Rise up and mak' a clean fireside;
Put on the muckle pot;

Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown,
And Jock his Sunday coat:

And mak' their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's been long awa'.

There's twa fat hens upon the bauk1,

Been fed this month and mair;

Mak' haste and thraw2 their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;

And mak' the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw;
It's a' for love of my gudeman,
For he's been long awa'.

O gi'e me down my bigonet,
My bishop satin gown,

For I maun tell the bailie's wife

That Colin's come to town.

My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on,

My hose o' pearlin blue;

'Tis a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's baith leal and true.

Sae true his words, sae smooth nis speech,

His breath's like caller

air!

His very foot has music in 't,

As he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy with the thought,—

In troth, I'm like to greet".

The cauld blasts o' the winter wind,
That thrilled through my heart,
They're a' blawn by; I ha'e him safe,
Till death we'll never part:

But what puts parting in my head?
It may be far awa';

The present moment is our ain,
The neist we never saw.

Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content,
I ha'e nae more to crave;
Could I but live to mak' him blest,
I'm blest above the lave':

And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,—
In troth, I'm like to greet.

CA' THE Yowes.

[ISABEL PAGAN. Born 1740; died 1821.]

Ca' the yowes to the knowes 2,
Ca' them whare the heather grows,
Ca' them whare the burnie rows *,
My bonnie dearie.

As I gaed down the water side,
There I met my shepherd lad,
He rowed me sweetly in his plaid,
And he ca'd me his dearie.

Will ye gang down the water side,
And see the waves sae sweetly glide
Beneath the hazels spreading wide,
The moon it shines fu' clearly.

'the rest.

⚫ knolls.

⚫ rolls.

I was bred up at nae sic school,
My shepherd lad, to play the fool;
And a' the day to sit in dool,
And naebody to see me.

Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet,
And in my arms ye 'se lie and sleep,
And ye shall be my dearie.

If ye'll but stand to what ye've said,
I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad;
And ye may row me in your plaid,
And I shall be your dearie.

While waters wimple to the sea,
While day blinks in the lift sae hie;
Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e,
Ye aye shall be my dearie.

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.

[JANE ELLIOT. Born 1727; died 1805.]

I've heard them lilting, at our ewe-milking,

Lasses a-lilting, before the dawn of day;

But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning ';
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At bughts in the morning nae blythe lads are scorning3;

The lasses are lanely, and dowie, and wae;

Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing,

Ilk ane lifts her leglin3, and hies her away.

In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
The bandsters are lyart, and runkled and gray;

At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching-
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

A loaning is a grass path through corn-fields for the use of the cattle. * sheep-pens.

9 teasing.

men who bind up the sheaves.

VOL IIL

4
⚫ jesting.

8 hoary.

5 pail.
⚫ coaxing.

K k

• harvest.

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies' are roaming
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her dearie-
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!

The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;

The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay.

We'll hear nae more lilting at our ewe-milking,
Women and bairns are heartless and wae ;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning,
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

LOGAN BRAES.

[JOHN MAYNE. Born 1759; died 1836.]

By Logan's streams that rin sae deep
Fu' aft, wi' glee, I've herded sheep,
I've herded sheep, or gather'd slaes,
Wi' my dear lad, on Logan braes.
But wae's my heart! thae days are gane,
And fu' o' grief I herd alane,

While my dear lad maun face his faes,

Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

Nae mair, at Logan kirk, will he,
Atween the preachings, meet wi' me-
Meet wi' me, or when it's mirk,
Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk.

I weel may sing thae days are gane—
Frae kirk and fair I come alane,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes!

At e'en, when hope amaist is gane,
I dander 2 dowie and forlane,
Or sit beneath the trysting-tree,
Where first he spak of love to me.

O! cou'd I see thae days again,
My lover skaithless, and my ain;
Rever'd by friends, and far frae faes,
We'd live in bliss on Logan braes.

FOR LACK OF GOLD.

[ADAM AUSTIN, M.D. Born 1726? died 1774.]
For lack of gold she's left me, O,
And of all that's dear bereft me, O;

She me forsook for Athole's duke,

And to endless woe she has left me, O.
A star and garter have more art
Than youth, a true and faithful heart;
For empty titles we must part,

And for glittering show she's left me, O.

No cruel fair shall ever nove

My injur'd heart again to love;

Through distant climates I must rove;
Since Jeany she has left me, O.
Ye powers above, I to your care
Give up my faithless, lovely fair;
Your choicest blessings be her share,
Though she's for ever left me, O.

JOHNNIE COPE'.

[ADAM SKIRVING. Born 1719; died 1803.j Cope sent a challenge frae Dunbar :-Charlie, meet me an ye daur,

And I'll learn you the art o' war,

If you'll meet wi' me i' the morni

Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye wauking yet?
Or are your drums a-beating yet?

If ye were wauking, I wad wait

To gang to the coals i' the morning.

The reader need hardly be reminded that Sir John Cope commanded the English forces at Preston l'ans, and was defeated by the Young Pretender.