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WERE NA MY HEART LIGHT I WAD DIE.

LADY GRISSEL BAILLIE.

Died 1746.

There was ance a May, and she loe'd nae men,
She biggit her bonnie bower down in yon glen;
But now she cries dool and weel-a-day,
Come down the green gate, and come here away.

When bonnie young Johnie came over the sea,
He vow'd he saw naething sae lovely as me;
He gae me gowd rings, and mony braw things-
And were na my heart light I wad die.

His wee wilfu' tittie she loved na me;

I was taller, and twice as bonnie as she;

She raised sic a pother 'tween him and his mother,
That were na my heart light I wad die.

The day it was set for the bridal to be,

The wife took a dwam and lay down to die;

She main❜d and she grain'd, wi' fause dolour and pain, Till he vow'd that he never would see me again.

His kindred sought ane of a higher degree-
Said, Wad he wed ane that was landless, like me?
Albeit I was bonnie, I was nae worth Johnie-
And were na my heart light I wad die.

They said I had neither a cow nor calf,
Nor dribbles o' drink coming through the draff,
Nor pickles o'meal running frae the mill ee-
And were na my heart light I wad die.

My lover he met me ance on the lea,

His tittie was wi' him, and hame ran she;

His mither came out wi' a shriek and a shout-
And were na my heart light I wad die.

His bonnet stood then fu' fair on his brow-
His auld ane look'd better than mony ane's new;
But now he lets't wear ony way it will hing,
And casts himself dowie upon the corn bing.

And now he gaes daunering about the dykes,
And a' he dow do is to hound the tykes;
The live-lang night he ne'er steeks his ee-
And were na my heart light I wad die.

O were we young now as we ance hae been,
We should hae been galloping down on yon green,
And linking it o'er the lily-white lea—

And were na my heart light I wad die.

["To Lady Grissel Baillie, daughter of the first Earl of Marchmont, we owe this popular song. It is very original, very characteristic, and very unequal."-CUNNINGHAM.

From the Tea Table Miscellany, 1724.]

TIBBIE FOWLER.

Tibbie Fowler o' the glen,

There's o'er mony wooing at her;
Tibbie Fowler o' the glen,

There's o'er mony wooing at her
Wooing at her, puin at her,

Courtin her, and canna get her;
Filthy elf, it's for her pelf

That a' the lads are wooing at her.

Ten cam east, and ten cam west,
Ten cam rowin o'er the water;
Twa cam down the lang dyke-side :
There's twa-and-thirty wooing at her.

There's seven but and seven ben,

Seven in the pantry wi' her,
Twenty head about the door :
There's ane-and-forty wooing at her.

She's got pendles in her lugs,
Cockle-shells wad set her better!
High-heel'd shoon and siller tags,
And a' the lads are wooing at her.

Be a lassie e'er sae black,

Gin she hae the name o' siller,

Set her upon Tintock tap,

The wind will blaw a man till her.

Be a lassie e'er sae fair,

An' she want the penny siller,
A flie may fell her in the air

Before a man be even'd till her.

[The name of this admirable song is mentioned in the Tea Table Miscellany; the Tibbie Fowler given above, is of a modern date, but it is not unlikely that some stray verses of the old lyric assisted the author in framing this very characteristic and graphic song. A Rev. Dr. Strachan, minister of Carnwath, has been mentioned as the author, "but in Scotland," says Mr. Cunningham, every thing above the mark of a common capacity is attributed to the minister of the parish."]

WHEN SAPPHO STRUCK THE QUIVERING WIRE.

TOBIAS SMOLLETT.

Born 1720-Died 1771.

When Sappho struck the quivering wire,
The throbbing breast was all on fire:
And when she rais'd the vocal lay,
The captive soul was charm'd away!
But had the nymph possessed with these
Thy softer, chaster power to please;
Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth,
Thy native smiles of artless truth;
The worm of grief had never prey'd
On the forsaken love-sick maid:
Nor had she mourn'd a hapless flame,
Nor dash'd on rocks her tender frame.

TO A YOUNG LADY.

TOBIAS SMOLLETT.

While with fond rapture and amaze
On thy transcendant charms I gaze,
My cautious soul essays in vain
Her peace and freedom to maintain :
Yet let that blooming form divine,
When grace and harmony combine,
Those eyes, like genial orbs, that move
Dispensing gladness, joy, and love,
In all their pomp assail my view,
Intent my bosom to subdue;

My breast, by wary maxims steel'd,
Not all those charms shall force to yield.

But when invok'd to beauty's aid,
I see th' enlightened soul display'd;
That soul so sensibly sedate
Amid the storms of froward fate!
Thy genius active, strong and clear,
Thy wit sublime, tho' not severe,
Thy social ardour, void of art,
That glows within thy candid heart;
My spirits, sense, and strength decay,

My resolution dies away,

And every faculty opprest,
Almighty Love invades my breast.

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