Its a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's baith leal and true.

For there's nae luck, &c.

Rise up and mak' a clean fireside;
Put on the muckle pot;

Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown,
And Jock his Sunday coat:

And mak' their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;

It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
He likes to see them braw.

For there's nae luck, &c.

There's twa fat hens upon the bauk,
They've fed this month and mair;
Mak' haste and thraw their necks about
That Colin weel may fare;

And spread the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw;

For wha can tell how Colin fared,

When he was far awa'.

For there's nae luck, &c.

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,

His breath like caller air ; His very foot has music in't,

As he comes up the stair!

And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,—

In troth, I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck, &c.

The cauld blasts o' the winter wind,
That thirl'd through my heart,
They're a' blawn by, I ha'e him safe,
Till death we'll never part :

But what puts parting in my head!
It may be far awa';

The present moment is our ain,

The neist we never saw,

For there's nae luck, &c.

Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content,
I ha'e nae mair to crave;

Could I but live to mak' him blest,
I'm blest aboon the lave:
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,-
In troth, I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck, &c.

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.

MISS JANE ELLIOTT.

I'VE heard them lilting at the ewe-milking,
Lasses a' lilting before dawn of day;

But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning;
The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae.

At bughts in the morning nae blythe lads are scorning;
Lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae;

Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing;
Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her awae.

In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering;
Bansters are runkled, and lyart or gray;

At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching ;
The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae.

At e'en in the gloaming nae younkers are roaming
'Bout stacks with the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk maid sits dreary, lamenting her dearie;
The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae.

I This song refers to the battle of Flodden Field, so fatal to the Scots under James V.

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!

The English, for ance, by guile won the day: The flowers of the forest, that fought aye the foremost,

The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.

We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking,
Women and bairns are heartless and wae-
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning;
The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae.

I've seen the smiling of Fortune beguiling,
I've tasted her favors, and felt her decay:
Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing,
But soon it is fled, it is fled far away.

I've seen the forest adorn'd of the foremost,

With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and gay; Full sweet was their blooming, their scent th' air perfuming, But now are they wither'd, and a' wede away.

I've seen the morning with gold the hills adorning,
And the red storm roaring before the parting day;
I've seen Tweed's silver streams glittering in the sunny
beams,

Turn drumly and dark as they roll'd on their way.

O fickle Fortune, why this cruel sporting?

Why thus perplex us, poor sons of a day?

Thy frowns cannot fear me, thy smiles cannot cheer me, Since the flowers of the forest are a' wede away.

LUCY'S FLIIIII'.

WILLIAM LAIDLAW.

"TWAS when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in, And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year,

That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in't,

And left her auld maister and neebors sae dear: For Lucy had served in the glen a' the simmer;

She cam' there afore the flower bloomed on the pea; An orphan was she, and they had been kind till her, Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her e'e.

She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin';
Richt sair was his kind heart, the flittin' to see:
"Fare ye weel, Lucy!" quo Jamie and ran in ;

The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his e'e.
As down the burnside she gaed slow wi' the flittin',
"Fare ye weel, Lucy!" was ilka bird's sang;
She heard the craw sayin't, high on the tree sittin',

And robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang.

"Oh, what is't that puts my puir heart in a flutter, And what gars the tears come sae fast to my e'e,