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COULD this ill warld hae been contrived
To stand without mischievous woman, How peacefu' bodies might hae lived,
Released frae a' the ills sae common;
But since it is the waefu' case
That man maun hae this teazing crony, Why sic a sweet bewitching face ?
O had she no been made sae bonny !
I might hae roam'd wi' cheerfu' mind,
Nae sin or sorrow to betide me,
As happy as the lamb beside me;
And carolld mountain airs fu' gaily,
I saw the danger, fear’d the dart,
The smile, the air, an'a' sae taking, Yet open laid my wareless heart,
An' gat the wound that keeps me waking. My harp waves on the willow green,
Of wild witch-notes it has nae ony Sin' e'er I saw that pawky quean,
Sae sweet, sae wicked, an' sae bonny !
LOCK THE DOOR, LARISTON.
This Border song was published in my own weekly paper, THE Spy, March 30, 1811, and found its way into the London papers, and partially through Britain, as the composition of my friend Mr Gray, now in India. I never contradicted it, thinking that any body might have known that no one could have written the song but myself. However, it has appeared in every collection of songs with Mr Gray's name. Although I look upon it as having no merit whatever, excepting a jingle of names, which Sir Walter's good taste rendered popular, and which in every other person's hand has been ludicrous, yet I hereby claim the song as one of my own early productions,—mine only, mine solely, and mine for ever.
Lock the door, Lariston, lion of Liddisdale,
The Armstrongs are flying,
Their widows are crying,
* For I defy the British nation
Lock the door, Lariston-high on the weather gleam See how the Saxon plumes bob on the sky,
Yeoman and carbineer,
Billman and halberdier;
Bewcastle brandishes high his broad scimitar,
Hedley and Howard there,
Wandale and Windermere,-
Thou bold Border ranger,
Beware of thy danger-
Jock Elliot raised up his steel bonnet and lookit,
“Ah, welcome, brave foemen,
On earth there are no men
Mcre gallant to meet in the foray or chase!
Little know you of the hearts I have hidden here,
Lindhope and Sorby true,
Sundhope and Milburn too, Gentle in manner, but lions in fight !
I've Margerton, Gornberry, Raeburn, and Netherby, Old Sim of Whitram, and all his array ;
Come all Northumberland,
Teesdale and Cumberland,
green Liddisdale, Red as the beacon-light tipp'd he the wold;
Many a bold martial eye
Mirror'd that morning sky,
Shrill was the bugle's note, dreadful the warrior shout, Lances and halberds in splinters were borne ;
Halberd and hauberk then
Braved the claymore in vain,