ALLAN-A-DALE.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Allan-a-dale has no faggot for burning;
Allan-a-dale has no furrow for turning;
Allan-a-dale has no fleece for the spinning,
Yet Allan-a-dale has red gold for the winning.
Come read me my riddle, come hearken my
tale,
And tell me the craft of bold Allan-a-dale.

The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride,
And he views his domains upon Arkindale side;
The mere for his net, and the land for his game;
The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame;
Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale,
Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allan-a-dale.

Allan-a-dale was ne'er belted a knight,

Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright; Allan-a-dale is no baron or lord,

Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word;

And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail,

Who at Rerecross, on Stanmore, meets Allan-a-dale.

Allan-a-dale to his wooing is come,

The mother, she ask'd of his household and home.

Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill,
My hall, quoth bold Allan, shows gallanter still,
'Tis the blue vault of heaven with its crescent so pale,
And with all its bright spangles! said Allan-a-dale.

The father was steel, and the mother was stone;
They lifted the latch, and they bade him begone;
But loud on the morrow, their wail and their cry!
He had laugh'd on the lass with his bonny black eye,
And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale,
And the youth it was told by was Allan-a-dale.

THE LASS OF PRESTON-MILL.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

The lark had left the evening cloud,
The dew fell soft, the wind was lowne,

Its gentle breath amang the flowers
Scarce stirr'd the thistle's top of down;
The dappled swallow left the pool,

The stars were blinking o'er the hill,
When I met among the hawthorns green
The lovely lass of Preston-mill.

Her naked feet amang the grass

Shone like two dewy lilies fair;

Her brow beam'd white aneath her locks

Black curling o'er her shoulders bare; Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth, Her lips had words and wit at will, And heaven seem'd looking through her een, The lovely lass of Preston-mill.

Quoth I, fair lass, wilt thou gang wi' me, Where black-cocks crow, and plovers cry? Six hills are woolly wi' my sheep,

Six vales are lowing wi' my kye.

I have look'd long for a weel-faur'd lass,
By Nithsdale's holms, and many a hill—
She hung her head like a dew-bent rose,
The lovely lass of Preston-mill.

I said, sweet maiden, look nae down,
But gie's a kiss, and come with me ;
A lovelier face O ne'er look'd up,

The tears were dropping frae her e'e.
I hae a lad who's far awa',

That weel could win a woman's will; My heart's already full of love,

Quoth the lovely lass of Preston-mill.

Now who is he could leave sic a lass,
And seek for love in a far countree?
Her tears dropp'd down like simmer dew;
I fain wad kiss'd them frae her ee.

I took ae kiss o' her comely cheek-
For pity's sake, kind sir, be still;
My heart is full of other love,

Quoth the lovely lass of Preston-mill.

She streek'd to heaven her twa white hands,
And lifted up her watery ee-

Sae lang's my heart kens aught o' God,
Or light is gladsome to my ee;

While woods grow green, and burns run clear,
Till my last drop of blood be still,

My heart shall haud nae other love,
Quoth the lovely lass of Preston-mill.

There's comely maids on Dee's wild banks,
And Nith's romantic vale is fu';
By Ae and Clouden's hermit streams
Dwells many a gentle dame, I trow.
O! they are lights of a bonnie kind,

As ever shone on vale and hill,
But there's ae light puts them all out,-
The lovely lass of Preston-mill.

TAKE TENT NOW, JEAN.

IVAN.

Tak' tent now, Jean,-ye mind yestreen

frae

your

The tap that raised ye
Your wily ee, that glanced on me,

wheel;

Ha! lass, the meaning I kent weel.
But I hae tint thy kindly glint,
And lightly now ye geck at me;
But, lass, tak' heed, ye'll rue the deed,
When aiblins we'll be waur to 'gree.

Tak' tent now, Jean,-the careless mien,
And cauldrife look, are ill to dree;

It's sair to bide the scornfu' pride

And

saucy

leer o' woman's ee.

Ah! where is now the bosom-vow,

The gushing tear of melting love,

The heav'nly thought, which fancy wrought, Of joy below, and bliss above?

Tak' tent now, Jean,-thae twa sweet een
Fu' light and blithely blink I trow;
The hinney drop on the red-rose top
Is nae sae sweet as thy wee mou':
But though thy fair and faithless air
Hath wrung the bosom-sigh frae me;
A changing mind, and heart unkind,
May chill a breast as dear to thee.