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There is a time for holy song,

An hour for charm and spell,
And now's the time to bathe my babe

In our blessed Ladye’s well.

Oh, thou wert born as fair a babe

As light e'er shone aboon, And fairer than the gowan is,

Born in the April moon ;
First like the lily pale ye grew,

Syne like the violet wan;
As in the sunshine dies the dew,

So faded my fair Ann.

Was it a breath of evil wind

That harm’d thee, lovely child ? Or was't the fairy's charmèd touch

That all thy bloom detiled ? I've watched thee in the mirk midnicht,

And watch'd thee in the day, And sung our Ladye’s sacred song,

To keep the elves away.

The moon is sitting on the hill,

The nicht is in its prime,
The owl doth chase the bearded bat,

The mark of witching time;
And o'er the seven sister-stars

A silver cloud is drawn, And pure the blessed water is

To bathe thee, gentle ann.

On a fair sea thy father sails

Among the spicy isles :
He thinks on thee, he thinks on me,

And as he thinks he smiles ;
And sings, while he his white sail trims,

And severs swift the sea, About his Anna's sunny locks

And of her bricht blue ee.

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ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. From “ Cromek's Remains,"

Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeannie,

By that pretty white hand o' thine,
And by a'the lowing stars in heaven,

That thou wad aye be mine;
And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeannie,

And by that kind heart o' thine,
By a' the stars sown thick ower heaven,

That thou wad aye be mine.

Then foul fa’ the hands that loose sic bands,

And the heart that wad part sic love;
But there's nae hand can loose my band

But the finger o’ God above.
Though the wee, wee cot maun be my bield,

And my claithing e'er sae mean,
I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' luve,

Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean.

Her white arm wad be a pillow for me,

Fu’ safter than the down,
And luve wad winnow ower us his kind, kind wings,

And sweetly I'll sleep an' soun'.
Come here to me, thou lass o' my luve,

Come here and kneel wi' me;
The morn is fu' o' the presence o' God,
And I canna pray without thee.

The morn-wind is sweet ’mang the beds o' new flowers,

The wee birds sing kindlie an' hie ;
Our gudeman leans owre his kale-yard dyke,

And a blythe auld bodie is he.
The Beuk maun be taen whan the carle comes hame

Wi' the holie psalmodie,
And thou maun speak o'me to thy God,

And I will speak o' thee.

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Upon a simmer afternoon,
A wee before the sun gade down,
My lassie, in a braw new gown,

Cam'o'er the hills to Gowrie.
The rose-bud, tinged with morning show'r,
Blooms fresh within the sunny bow'r;
But Katie was the fairest flower

That ever bloom'd in Gowrie.

Nae thought had I to do her wrang,
But round her waist my arms I flang,
And said, “My dearie, will ye gang
To see the Carse o' Gowrie ?


I'll tak ye to my father's ha',
In yon green

fields beside the shaw;
I'll mak' you lady o' them a',

The brawest wife in Gowrie.”
“A silken gown o'siller gray

My mither coft last new-year's day,
And buskit me fra tap to tae,

To keep me out o' Gowrie.
Daft Will short syne cam' courting Nell,
And wan the lass; but what befel,
Or whare she’s gane, she kens hersel',

She stay'd na’ lang in Gowrie.”
“ Sic thoughts, dear Katie, ill combine
Wi' beauty rare and wit like thine ;
Except yoursel', my bonnie quean,

I care for nought in Gowrie.
Since first I saw you in the sheal,
To you my heart's been true and leal ;
The darkest night I fear nae de’il,

Warlock, or witch, in Gowrie.”
Saft kisses on her lips I laid,
The blush upon her cheeks soon spread,
She whisper'd modestly, and said,

O Pate, I'll stay in Gowrie !"
The auld folks soon ga’e their consent,
Syne for Mess John they quickly sent,
Wha ty'd them to their heart's content,

And now she's Lady Gowrie.

Founded upon an older ballad, by William Reid of Glasgow, entitled “ Kate of Gowrie.”


From the “Harp of Renfrewshire," 1820.
LET us haste to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie 0;
Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie 0,

Where the rose in all her pride

Paints the hollow dingle's side,
Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie 0.

Let us wander by the mill, bonnie lassie 0;
To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie 0,

Where the glens rebound the call

Of the roaring waters' fall,
Through the mountain's rocky hall, bonnie lassie 0.

Oh, Kelvin banks are fair, bonnie lassie 0,
When in simmer we are there, bonnie lassie 0 ;

There the May-pink's crimson plume

Throws a soft but sweet perfume
Round the yellow banks of broom, bonnie lassie 0.

Though I dare not call thee mine, bonnie lassie 0,
As the smile of fortune's thine, bonnie lassie 0);

Yet with fortune on my side,

I could stay thy father's pride,
And win thee for my bride, bonnie lassie 0.

But the frowns of fortune lower, bonnie lassie 0,
On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie 0;

Ere yon golden orb of day

Wake the warblers on the spray,
From this land I must away, bonnie lassie 0.

Then farewell to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie 0,
And adieu to all I love, bonnie lassie 0);

To the river winding clear,

To the fragrant-scented brier,
Even to thee, of all most dear, bonnie lassie 0.

When upon a foreign shore, bonnie lassie 0,
Should I fall midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie 0,

Then, Helen, shouldst thou hear

Of thy lover on his bier,
To his memory shed a tear, bonnie lassie 0.

The author of this celebrated song is Thomas Lyle, surgeon in Glasgow. The music arranged by R. A. Smith, composer of " Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane,” from the old Scottish melody, “ Bonnie lassie 0.”

Kelvin Grove is, or was, situated about two miles from Glasgow, but bids fair to be included within the bounds of that rapidly increasing city.

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