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As down we sat the flowers amang,
Upon the banks o' stately Dee.
My Julia's arms encircled me,

An' saftly slade the hours awa',
Till dawin coost a glimmerin e'e
Upon the hills o' Gallowa'.

It isna owsen, sheep, an' kye,
It isna goud, it isna gear,
This lifted e'e wad hae, quoth I,
The warld's drumlie gloom to cheer

But gie to me my Julia dear,

Ye powers wha rowe this yirthen ba', An' O! sae blythe thro' life I'll steer, Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.

Whan gloamin' dauners up the hill,
An' our gudeman ca's hame the yowes,
Wi' her I'll trace the mossy rill

That owre the muir meand'ring rowes;
Or tint amang the Scroggy knowes,
My birken pipe I'll sweetly blaw,

An' sing the streams, the straths, and howes, The hills an' dales o' Gallowa'.

An' whan auld Scotland's heathy hills,
Her rural nymphs an' jovial swains,
Her flow'ry wilds an' wimpling rills,
Awake nae mair my canty strains;

Whare friendship dwells an' freedom reigns, Whare heather blooms an' muircocks craw,

O! dig my grave, and hide banes

my

Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.

ADELGITHA.

THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.

The ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded,
And sad pale Adelgitha came,
When forth a valiant champion bounded,
And slew the slanderer of her fame.

She wept, deliver'd from the danger;
But when he knelt to claim her glove,
Seek not, she cried, O gallant stranger,
For hapless Adelgitha's love!

For he is in a foreign far land,

Whose arm should now have set me free;

And I must wear the willow garland

For him that's dead, or false to me.

Nay, say not that his faith is tainted!-
He raised his visor-at the sight
She fell into his arms and fainted-

It was indeed her own true knight.

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O make me of Nithsdale's

Fair princedom the heiress, Is that worth one smile of My gentle Hugh Herries?

The white bread, the sweet milk,
And ripe fruits I found him,
And safe in my fond arms

I clasp'd and I wound him;
I warn you go not where

My true lover tarries,
For sharp smites the sword of
My gentle Hugh Herries.

They rein'd their proud war-steeds,
Away they went sweeping,
And behind them dames wail'd, and
Fair maidens went weeping;
But deep in yon wild glen,

'Mang banks of blae-berries, I dwell with my loved one, My gentle Hugh Herries.

THE SHEPHERD'S SON.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

The gowan glitters on the sward,

The lavrock's in the sky,

And Colley on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.

Oh no! sad and slow!

I hear nae welcome sound,

The shadow of our trysting bush
It wears sae slowly round.

My sheep-bell tinkles from the west,
My lambs are bleating near,
But still the sound that I lo'e best,
Alack! I canna hear.

Ah no! sad and slow!

The shadow lingers still,

And like a lanely ghaist I stand
And croon upon the hill.

I hear below the water roar,
The mill with clacking din;
And Lucky scolding frae her door,
To bring the bairnies in.

VOL. IV.

Oh no! sad and slow!

These are nae sounds for me;

R

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