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“ Yet stay, fair lady : rest awhile

Beneath this cloister wall; See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind,

And drizzly rain doth fall."

“O stay me not, thou holy friar,

O stay me not I pray ;
No drizzly rain that falls on me,

Can wash my fault away."
* Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,

And dry those pearly tears ;
For see beneath this gown of gray

Thy own true-love appears.
“ Here forced by grief, and hopeless love,

These holy weeds I sought; And here amid these lonely walls

To end my days I thought.
“But haply, for my year of grace

Is not yet passed away;
Might I still hope to win thy love,

No longer would I stay."
“ Now farewell grief, and welcome joy

Once more unto my heart ;
For since I have found thee, lovely youth,

We never more will part.”


0 NANCY, wilt thou go with me,
v Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town;
Can silent glens have charms for thee,

The lowly cot and russet gown?
No longer dressed in silken sheen,

No longer decked with jewels rare,
Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?
( Nancy! when thou'rt far away,

Wilt thou not cast a wish behind ?
Say, canst thou face the parching ray,

Nor shrink before the wintry wind ?

O! can that soft and gentle mien

Extremes of hardship learn to bear,
Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?
O Nancy ! canst thou love so true,

Through perils keen with me to go,
Or when thy swain mishap shall rue,

To share with him the pang of woe ?
Say, should disease or pain befall,

Wilt thou assume the nurse's care;
Nor wistful those gay scenes recall

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ?
And when at last thy love shall die,

Wilt thou receive his parting breath ?
Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh,

And cheer with smiles the bed of death?
And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay

Strew flowers and drop the tender tear?
Nor then regret those scenes so gay

Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? *

* Burts says in reference to the above, “It is too barefaced to take Dr. Percy's charming song, and by means of transposing a few English words into Scots, to offer to pass it for a Scots song."-BURNS, Remarks on Scottish Songs and Ballads.



WILLIAM J. MICKLE.- 1734-83. [This well-known and favourite poem, although of Scotch origin and generally attributed, but with some little doubt, to William Mickle, is by its universal appreciation entitled to a place in an English collection. It often appears under the title of “The Sailor's Return ;” but the more popular title is taken from its familiar refrain. The reputed author's works do not contain this poem; but Allan Cunningham, a good authority, considers that the evidence is in favour of its being Mickle's production, as it was found amongst his papers with corrections in his writing.)

AND are ye sure the news is true?

And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o wark ?

Ye jades, lay by your wheel ;

Is this the time to spin a thread,

When Colin's at the door?
Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,

And see him come ashore.
For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a';
There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.

And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop's satin gown ;
For I maun tell the Baillie's wife

That Colin's in the town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on,

My stockins pearly blue;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,

For he's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,

Put on the muckle pot;
Gie little Kate her button 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 upo' the coop

Been fed this month and mair ;
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,

That Colin weel may fare;
And spread the table neat and clean,

Gar ilka thing look braw,
For wha can tell how Colin fared

When he was far awa ?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,

His breath 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 wi' the thought,

In troth I'm like to greet !

If Colin's weel, and weel content,

I hae nae mair to crave :
And gin I live to keep him sae,

I'm blest aboon 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.
For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a';
There's little pleasure in the house,

When our gudeman's awa'.




[Strictly speaking, no poetry by this author has attained the designation of favourite on its own merits ; but his unparalleled early genius for poetry and his untimely fate give him a claim to rank in the position his career attained in public estimation and sympathy. He died by his own hand in his eighteenth year, leaving behind him evidences of talent that have never been surpassed at such an age. Malone, one of his critics, says of him, that “he is the greatest genius that England has produced since the time of Shakespeare.” The second poem given affords an extraordinary indication of the variations of his temperament, and gives rise to a deep regret that their unfortunate author failed to retain the full exercise of his religious impressions. It has been well and touchingly remarked of his memory that posterity may be excused if, forgetting his faults in contemplation of his neglected state and sorrowful youtlı, it dwells only on his genius.]

SING unto my roundelay;

O drop the briny tear with me;
Dance no more at holiday ;

Like a running river be;

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