Craigie Lea.

THE BONNY WOOD OF CRAIGIE LEA.

HOU bonny wood of Craigie lea!

THOU

Thou bonny wood of Craigie lea! Near thee I passed life's early day,

And won my Mary's heart in thee.

The broom, the brier, the birken bush
Bloom bonny o'er thy flowery lea,
And a' the sweets that ane can wish
Frae Nature's hand are strewed on thee.
Thou bonny wood of Craigie Lea.

Far ben thy dark green plantin's shade,
The cooshat croodles am'rously,
The mavis, down thy bughted glade,
Gars echo ring frae every tree.

Thou bonny wood of Craigie Lea.

Awa', ye thoughtless, murd'ring gang,
Wha tear the nestlings ere they flee!
They'll sing you yet a canty sang,
Then, O, in pity, let them be!

Thou bonny wood of Craigie Lea.

When winter blaws in sleety showers
Frae aff the norlan' hills sae hie,

He lightly skiffs thy bonny bowers,

As laith to harm a flower in thee.

Thou bonny wood of Craigie Lea.

Though Fate should drag me south the line,
Or o'er the wide Atlantic sea;

The happy hours I'll ever mind,

That I, in youth, ha'e spent in thee.

Thou bonny wood of Craigie Lea.

Robert Tannahill.

FAREV

Cramond.

WRITTEN ON CRAMOND BEACH.

AREWELL, old playmate! on thy sandy shore My lingering feet will leave their print no more; To thy loved side I never may return.

I pray thee, old companion, make due mourn
For the wild spirit who so oft has stood
Gazing in love and wonder on thy flood.
The form is now departing far away,
That half in anger, oft, and half in play,
Thou hast pursued with thy white showers of foam.
Thy waters daily will besiege the home

I loved among the rocks; but there will be
No laughing cry to hail thy victory,

Such as was wont to greet thee when I fled,

With hurried footsteps and averted head,

Like fallen monarch, from my venturous stand,
Chased by thy billows far along the sand.
And when at eventide thy warm waves drink
The amber clouds that in their bosom sink,
When sober twilight over thee has spread
Her purple pall, when the glad day is dead,
My voice no more will mingle with the dirge
That rose in mighty moaning from thy surge,
Filling with awful harmony the air,

When thy vast soul and mine were joined in prayer.

Frances Anne Kemble.

Crawfurdland.

FAREWELL TO CRAWFURDLAND.

HOU dark stream slow wending thy deep rocky way,

THOU

Ye gray towers that rise o'er the daffodil brae, I've viewed you with pleasure, but now must with pain

Farewell! for I never may see you again.

Ye woods where in life's gladsome morning I strayed,
When all was in sunshine and beauty arrayed;
That dream has departed, how fleeting and vain
Farewell! for I never may see you again.

O'er moss and o'er moorland my path soon shall be,
The cloud-covered mountain and wide stormy sea,
Your beauties will gladden some happier swain-
Farewell! for I never may see you again.

John Ramsay.

Cree, the River.

THE BANKS OF CREE.

[ERE is the glen, and here the bower,

HERE

All underneath the birchen shade

The village-bell has tolled the hour,
O, what can stay my lovely maid ?

"T is not Maria's whispering call,

"T is but the balmy-breathing gale, Mixed with some warbler's dying fall, The dewy star of eve to hail.

It is Maria's voice I hear!

So calls the woodlark in the grove, His little faithful mate to cheer;

At once 't is music and 't is love.

;

And art thou come? and art thou true?
O, welcome, dear, to love and me!
And let us all our vows renew,
Along the flowery banks of Cree.

Robert Burns.

Crichton Castle.

CRICHTON CASTLE.

T length up that wild dale they wind, Where Crichtoun Castle crowns the bank; For there the Lion's care assigned

A lodging meet for Marmion's rank. That Castle rises on the steep

Of the green vale of Tyne:

And far beneath, where slow they creep
From pool to eddy, dark and deep,
Where alders moist and willows weep,

You hear her streams repine.

The towers in different ages rose;
Their various architecture shows

The builders' various hands;
A mighty mass, that could oppose,
When deadliest hatred fired its foes,
The vengeful Douglas bands.

Crichtoun! though now thy miry court
But pens the lazy steer and sheep,
Thy turrets rude, and tottered Keep,
Have been the minstrel's loved resort.
Oft have I traced, within thy fort,
Of mouldering shields the mystic sense,
Scutcheons of honor or pretence,
Quartered in old armorial sort,