SONG. JOANNA BAILLIE. Tho' richer swains thy love pursue, Their silken gifts with colours gay: I grieve not for my wayward lot, THE GREEN BOWERS OF BARGENY. HUGH AINSLIE. I left ye, Jeanie, blooming fair I've found buskit like a queen, ye In painted chambers sitting. I left ye like a wanton lamb That plays 'mang Haydart heather; I've found ye now a sober dame, A wife, and eke a mither. Ye're fairer, statelier, I can see; Ye're wiser, nae doubt, Jeanie ;But Oh! I'd rather met wi' thee ''Mang the green bowers of Bargeny. THE BROKEN HEART OF ANNIE. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Down yon green glen, in yon wee bower, When she grew faint, and sick of heart, I found her as a lily flower, When dew hangs in its blossom, Hung smiling at her bosom. Such throbs ran through her frame, as seem'd Her heart and soul to sever; In no one's face she look'd-her bloom Was fading--and for ever. Thou hast thy father's smile, my babe, A voice that made his falsest vows And get, from hearts which he had broke, My false love came to me yestreen, And kiss'd his babe, and said, Sweet wean, And out he pull'd a purse of gold, It's not thy gold and silver bright, Speak to thy God of thy broken vows, For thou hast broken many. A WEARY LOT IS THINE. SIR WALTER SCOTT. A weary lot is thine, fair maid, To pull the thorn, thy brow to braid, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green, No more of me you knew, My love! No more of me you knew. This morn is merry June, I trow ; The rose is budding fain; But it shall bloom in winter snow He turned his charger as he spake, |