My kurtch I put upo' my head, UNKNOWN. GLENLOGIE. THREESCOKE o' nobles rade up the king's ha', But bonnie Glenlogie's the flower o' them a', Wi' his milk-white steed and his bonnie black e'e, The next line that he read, the tear blindit his e'e; But the last line that he read, he gart the table flee. "Gar saddle the black horse, gar saddle the brown; Gar saddle the swiftest steed e'er rade frae a town": But lang ere the horse was drawn and brought to the green, O, bonnie Glenlogie was twa mile his lane. When he came to Glenfeldy's door, little mirth was there; Bonnie Jean's mother was tearing her hair. "Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, ye 're wel come," said she, "Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, your Jeanie to see. "Glenlogie, dear mither, Glenlogie for Pale and wan was she, when Glenlogie me!" gaed ben, But red and rosy grew she, whene'er he sat down; She turned awa' her head, but the smile was in her e'e, "O, binna feared, mither, I'll maybe no dee." "Me haud my tongue for you, Guidwife! I'll be maister o' this house, I saw it as plain as een could see, "If you're the maister o' the house, An' I ken best what 's i' the house, "Weel, weel, Guidwife, gae mak the brose, While John sat toastin' his taes. They suppit an' suppit an' suppit the brose, An' aye their lips played smack ; They suppit an' suppit an' suppit the brose THOMAS CHATTERTON. 79 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. [1751-1816.] HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD HAD I a heart for falsehood framed, To you no soul shall bear deceit, Your charms would make me true: No stranger offer wrong; For when they learn that you have blest THOMAS CHATTERTON. [1752-1770.] THE MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA. O, SING unto my roundelay! O, drop the briny tear with me! Dance no more at holiday, Like a running river be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as the summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light; Cold he lies in the grave below. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Sweet his tongue as throstle's note, Gone to his death-bed, Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the briered dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares as they go. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. See! the white moon shines on high; Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Here, upon my true-love's grave, All the sorrows of a maid. Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. With my hands I'll bind the briers Gone to his death-bed, Come with acorn cup and thorn, Dance by night, or feast by day. Gone to his death-bed, GEORGE CRABBE. [1754-1832.] ISAAC ASHFORD. NEXT to these ladies, but in naught allied, A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. Noble he was, contemning all things mean, His truth unquestioned and his soul serene: Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid; At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed: Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace; Truth, simple truth, was written in his face; Yet while the serious thought his soul approved, Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he loved; To bliss domestic he his heart resigned, And with the firmest, had the fondest mind. Were others joyful, he looked smiling on, And gave allowance where he needed none; Good he refused with future ill to buy, Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh. A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast No envy stung, no jealousy distressed (Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind To miss one favor which their neighbors find); Yet far was he from stoic pride removed; He felt humanely, and he warmly loved. I marked his action when his infant died, And his old neighbor for offence was tried; The still tears, stealing down that furrowed cheek, Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak. If pride were his, 't was not their vulgar |