"Oh I hae dreamed a dream, mother,

I wish it may prove true!
That the bonny Lass of Lochroyan
Was at the gate e'en now.

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Oh I hae dreamed a dream, mother The thought o't gars me greet! That Fair Annie o' Lochroyan

Lay cauld dead at my feet!"

"Gin it be for Annie o' Lochroyan
That ye make a' this din,
She stood a' last night at your door
But I trow she wan na in.”—

"O wae betide ye, ill woman!
An ill death may ye die!
That wadna open the door to her
Nor yet wad waken me!"

Oh he's gane down to yon shore side As fast as he could fare;

He saw fair Annie in the boat,

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But the wind it tossed her sair.

And hey, Annie! and how, Annie!
Oh Annie, winna ye bide!"

But aye the mair he cried Annie,

The braider grew the tide.

"And hey, Annie! and how, Annie!
Dear Annie, speak to me!"

But aye the louder he cried Annie
The louder roared the sea.—

The wind blew loud, the sea grew rough,
And dashed the boat on shore;
Fair Annie floated through the fa'em,
But the babie rose no more.

Lord Gregory tore his yellow hair,
And made a heavy moan;
Fair Annie's corpse lay at his feet,
His bonny young son was gone.

Oh cherry, cherry was her cheek,
And gowden was her hair;
But clay cold were her rosy lips—
Nae spark of life was there.

And first he kissed her cherry cheek,
And syne he kissed her chin,
And syne he kissed her rosy lips--
There was nae breath within.

"Oh wae betide my cruel mother!
An ill death may she die!

She turned my true love frae my door
Wha came sae far to me.

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Oh wae betide my cruel mother!
An ill death may she die;

She turned Fair Annie frae my door,
Wha died for love o' me."

EARL RICHARD.

LADY rock never your young son young,
One hour langer for me;

For I have a sweetheart in Garlioch Wells
I love far better than thee.

"The very sole of that lady's foot

Than thy face is far more white."
"But nevertheless, now, Erl Richard,
Ye will bide in my bower a' night?"

She birled him with the ale and wine
As they sat down to sup:

A living man he laid him down,

But I wot he ne'er rose up.

Plied.

Then up and spake the popinjay,'

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That flew aboun her head,

Lady! keep weel your green cleiding
Frae gude Erl Richard's bleid."-

O better I'll keep my green cleiding
Frae gude Erl Richard's bleid,

Than thou canst keep thy clattering toung,
That prattles in thy head."

She has call'd upon her bower maidens,
She has call'd them ane by ane,

There lies a dead man in my bour,
I wish that he were gane.”

They hae booted him, and spurred him,

As he was wont to ride;

A hunting-horn tied round his waist,
A sharpe sword by his side;

And they hae had him to the wan water,

For a' men call it Clyde.

Then up and spoke the popinjay

That sat upon the tree,—

"What hae ye done wi' Erl Richard?

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Ye were his gay ladye."

Come down, come down, my bonny bird, And sit upon my hand,

I Parrot.