Ah, no! the die was foully cast,

Her fondest earthly hope was gone; Her soul had brooded o'er the past, Till pale despair remain'd alone. Her heart abused, her love misused,

Her parents drooping to the tomb, Weeping, she fled to desert bed,

To perish in its ample dome.

LIDDEL BOWER,

A BALLAD,

WAS written for Albyn's Anthology, where it appeared to an old Border air of one part, which Mr Campbell had picked up. I have an impression that the ballad was founded on some published legend, but where it is to be found I have quite forgot.

"O WILL you walk the wood, ladye,
Or will you walk the lea,

Or will ye gae to the Liddel bower,

An' rest a while wi' me ?"

"The dew lies in the wood, Douglas,

The wind blaws on the lea,

An' when I gae to the Liddel bower,
It shall not be wi' thee."

"The stag bells on my hills, ladye,

The hart but an the hind,

My flocks spread o'er the Border dales, My steeds outstrip the wind.

At ae blast o' my bugle-horn

A thousand tend my ca';

With Douglas at the Liddel bower,

No ill can thee befa'.

"D'ye mind when in that lonely bower

Meeting at eventide,

I kiss'd your young and rosy lips,
An' woo'd you for my bride?

I saw the blush break on your cheek,
The tear stand in your ee;

O could I ween, fair Lady Jane!
That then ye loed nae me?"

"But sair, sair hae I rued that day, An' sairer yet may rue!

Ye thought nae on my maiden love,

Nor yet my rosy hue.

Ye thought nae on my bridal bed,
Nae vow nor tear o' mine-

Ye thought upon the lands o' Nith,
And how they might be thine.

"Away, ye cruel fause leman!

Nae mair my bosom wring;

There is a bird into yon bower,

O gin ye heard it sing!"

'Lady, beware! Some words there are

That secrets may betray

No utterance gives them to the air-
What dares your wee bird say?"

"It hirples on the bough, and sings,
'O wae's me, dame, for thee!
An' wae's me for the comely knight

That sleeps beneath the tree!

His cheek is on the cauld, cauld clay,

Nae belt or brand has he;

His blood is on a kinsman's spear

O wae's me, dame, for thee!" "

My yeomen line the wood, ladye,

My steed stands at the tree,

An' you maun dree a dulefu' weird,

Or mount an' ride wi' me."

What gars Caerlaverock yeomen ride

Sae fast in belt and steel?

What gars the Jardine mount his steed, An' scour o'er moor and dale?

The Johnstones, with an hundred strong,
Have pass'd the sands o' Dryfe,
As if some treasure they had lost

That dearer was than life.

Why seek they up by Liddel bower,
And down by Tarras linn?

The heiress of the lands of Nith

Is lost to all her kin.

O lang, lang may her mother greet,
Down by the salt sea-faem;

An' lang, lang may the Maxwells look,
Afore their bride come hame.