O Helen fair beyond compare !
I'll mak' a garland o' thy hair,
Shall bind my heart for evermair,
Until the day I dee!

Oh, that I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries;
Out of my bed she bids me rise,
Says, "Haste, and come to me!"

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!
If I were with thee, I were blest,
Where thou lies low and takes thy rest,
On fair Kirkconnell lea.

I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding-sheet drawn ower my e'en,
And I in Helen's arms lying
On fair Kirkconnell lea.

I wish I were where Helen lies!
Night and day on me she cries,
And I am weary of the skies

For her sake that died for me.
OLD BALLAD.

To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claverhouse who spoke: Ere the king's crown shall fall, there are crowns to be

broke;

So let each cavalier who loves honor and me,
Come follow the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee !

Dundee, he is mounted, he rides up the street,
The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat,
But the provost, douce man, said, "Just e'en let him be,
The guid town is weel quit of that de'il o' Dundee !"

He spurred to the foot of the proud castle rock,
And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke:

"Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three

For the love of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.

"There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond

Forth,

If there's lords in the lowlands, there's chiefs in the

North,

There are wild Duniewassals, three thousand times

three,

Will cry 'Hey for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee.'

"Then awa' to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks,
Ere I own a usurper I'll couch with the fox;
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee,
Ye hae no seen the last o' my bonnet and me!"

He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown,
The kettledrums clashed and the horseman rode on,
Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lea
Died away the wild war notes of Bonnie Dundee.

Chorus

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can;
Come saddle your horses and call up your men;
Come open the West Port and let us gang free,
For it's up wi' the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE GLOVE

KING FRANCIS was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court: The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by their side, And 'mong them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for

whom he sighed :

And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts

below.

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws:

With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled on one another;

Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thunderous smother;

The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through

the air:

Said Francis, then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here

than there."

De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively

dame,

With smiling lips, and sharp, bright eyes, which always seemed the same;

She thought, "The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be,

He surely would do wondrous things to show his love

for me;

King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine."

She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled,

He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild; The leap was quick, return was quick, he soon regained

the place,

Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.

"In faith," cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat;

"Not love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like

that."

LEIGH HUNT.