COME, TOOM THE STOUP. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Come, toom the stoup! let the merry sun shine Come, toom up the stoup! what must be, must; Is daintier than midnight madam to me. Drink fills us with joy and gladness, and soon Dip their wings in drink ere they mount from the earth. Come, toom the stoup! it's delightful to see The world run round, like to whomel on me; And yon bonnie bright star-by my sooth it's a shiner, Ilka drop that I drink it seems glowing diviner. Away with your lordships of mosses and mools, With your women, the plague and the plaything of fools! Away with your crowns, and your sceptres, and mitres! Lay the parson's back bare to the rod of the smiters; For wisdom wastes time, and reflection is folly, Let learning descend to the score and the tally. Lo! the floor's running round, the roof's swimming in glory, And I have but breath for to finish my story. SONG OF THE ELFIN MILLER. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Full merrily rings the millstone round, Come taste my fragrant meal. The miller he's a worldly man, And maun have double fee; So draw the sluice of the churl's dam, The top of the grain on hill and plain One elf goes chasing the wild bat's wing, One hunts the fox for the white o' his tail, O haste, my brown elf, bring me corn Go, gentle fairy, bring me grain Fair is the corn and fatter; Hilloah! my hopper is heaped high; Haste, elves, and turn yon mountain burn Bring streams that shine like siller; The dam is down, the moon sinks soon, And I maun grind my meller. Ha! bravely done, my wanton elves, See how the dust from the mill-ee flies, And meet me soon, ere sinks the moon MARMION. SIR WALTER SCOTT. Where shall the lover rest, Whom the fates sever, From his true maiden's breast Parted for ever? Where, through groves deep and high, Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die, Under the willow. There, through the summer day, There, while the tempests sway, Scarce are boughs waving; There thy rest shalt thou take, Parted for ever, Never again to wake, Never, O never. Where shall the traitor rest, He the deceiver, Who could win maiden's breast, Ruin, and leave her? In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying. Her wing shall the eagle flap His warm blood the wolf shall lap, Ere life be parted; Shame and dishonour sit By his grave ever; Blessing shall hallow it Never, O never. |