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The star that gilds the e'ening sky,
Though black, yet O she's bonny ! In yon green wood there is a bower, Where lies a bed of witching power ; Under that bed there blooms a flower,
That steals the heart unwary.
O, there is a charm, and there is a spell,
Though felt baith late an early.
Is my black but bonny Mary!
LOVE IS LIKE A DIZZINESS.
The following ridiculous song, which was written twentysix years ago, has been so long a favourite with the country lads and lasses, that for their sakes I insert it, knowing very well they would be much disappointed at missing it out of this volume. It is to the Irish air called “ Paddy's Wedding.”
I LATELY lived in quiet case,
An' never wish'd to marry, 0!
I felt a sad quandary, O!
She has trepann'd me fairly, 0 !
Love is like a dizziness;
Gang about his biziness !
To tell my feats this single week
Wad mak a daft-like diary, O! I drave my cart outow'r a dike,
My horses in a miry, O! I wear my stockings white an' blue,
My love's sae fierce an' fiery, O! I drill the land that I should plough, An' plough the drills entirely, O!
O, love, love, love! &c.
Ae morning, by the dawn o' day,
I rase to theek the stable, O! I keust my coat, an' plied away
As fast as I was able, O! I wrought that morning out an' out,
As I'd been redding fire, O! When I had done an' look'd about, Gudefaith, it was the byre, O!
0, love, love, love! &c.
Her wily glance I'll ne'er forget,
The dear, the lovely blinkin o't
Has pierced me through an' through the heart,
An' plagues me wi' the prinkling o't.
I tried to drown't wi' drinkin' o't,
0, love, love, love! &c.
Nae man can tell what pains I prove,
Or how severe my pliskie, 0 ! I swear I'm sairer drunk wi’ love
Than ever I was wi' whisky, O!
I scarce can lift a leggie, O!
Love is like a dizziness
Gang about his biziness!
O, WEEL BEFA' THE MAIDEN GAY.
This song was written at Ellery, Mr Wilson's seat in Westmoreland, where a number of my very best things were written. There was a system of competition went on there, the most delightful that I ever engaged in. Mr Wilson and I had a Queen's Wake every wet day—a fair set-to who should write the best poem between breakfast and dinner, and, if I am any judge, these friendly competitions produced several of our best poems, if not the best ever written on the same subjects before. Mr Wilson, as well as Southey and Wordsworth, had all of them a way of singing out their poetry in a loud sonorous key, which was very impressive, but perfectly ludicrous. Wilson, at that period, composed all his poetry, by going over it in that sounding strain; and in our daily competitions, although our rooms were not immediately adjoining, I always overheard what progress he was making. When he came upon any grand idea, he opened upon it full swell, with all the energy of a fine foxhound on a hot trail. If I heard many of these vehement aspirations, they weakened my hands and discouraged my heart, and I often said to myself, “ Gudefaith, it's a' ower wi' me for this day !” When we went over the poems together in the evening, I was always anxious to learn what