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LADY ANNE BOTH WELL'S L A MENT.

We are indebted to the volume of "Scottish Bi'lads,” edited by Robert Chambers, for our copy of

this pathetic and popular ballad. The mourning victim, it is now well e-tablished, was the daughter of Bothwell, Bishop of Orkney, at the Reformation. She was eminently beaut ful Her betrayer was the Honourable Sir Alexander Erskine, a son of the seventh Earl ot' Mar. He was considered the handsomest man of his age, as a portrait of him now in existence, testifies. During the religious troubles in Scotland, he proved himself as disloyol in politics as in love, laving been prevailed on by the Covenanters to take comm:nd of one of their regimenis. He met with an untimely end, having been blown up at the Castle of Dunglass, in Berwickshire, “ a judgment upon him," says tradi. tion," for his treatment of the unhappy lady."

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Balow, my boy, lie still and sleip!
It grieves me sair to see thee weip;
If thou'se be silent, I'se be glad ;
Thy maining maks my hearı full sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mother's joy ;
Thy father breids me great annoy.

Balow, my boy, le still and sleip!
It grieves me sair to see thee weip.

For, if they do, Oh, cruel thou
Wilt her abuse, and care not how.

Balow, my boy ; lie siill and sleip!

It grieves me sair to see thee weip.
I was too credulous at first,
To yield thee all a maiden durst.
Thou swore forever true to prove,
Thy faith unchanged, unchanged thy love;
But, quick as thoughi, the change is

wrought,
Thy love's no more, thy promise nouchi.

Balow, my boy ; lie still and sleip!
It grieves me sair to see thee weip.

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Lie still, my darling ; sleip awhile,
And when thou wakest, sweetlie smile :
But smile not as thy father did,
To cozen maids: nay, God forbid !
But yet I feir, thou wilt gae neir
Thy father's heart and face to beir.

Balow, my boy ; lie still and sleip!
It grieves me sair to see thee weip.

Balow my boy, weep not for me,
Whose greatest grief's for wronging thee;
Nor pitv her deserved smart,
Who can blame none but her fond heart.
The too soon trusting, latest finds,
With fairest tongues are falsest minds.

Balow, my boy; lie still and sleip!

It grieves me sair to heir thee weip.
Oh, do not, do not, prettie mine,
To feignings false thy heart incline.
Be loyal to thy lover true,
And never change her for a new:
If good or fair, of her liave care;
For women's banning's wondrous sair.

Balow, my boy ; lie still and sleip!
It grieves me sair to see thee weip.

Farewell, farewell, thou falsest youth,
That ever kist a woman's mouth!
Let nevir any, after me,
Submit unto thy courtesie:

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A U L D ROBIN GRA Y.

It would be superfluous to say a word as to the merits of this well-known ballad: its simple beauty has

won too many hearts to render eulogium necessary. It's author is not so generally known. It is the composition of the late Lady Barnard, daughter of the Earl of Balcarras. It was writien about the year 1772, and for fitty years the secret of its authorship was preserved. In 1823, two years before her death, Lady Barnard acknowledged it as her composition in a letter to Walter Scott.

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My father cou'dna work-my mother O sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of

cou'dna spin, I toil'd day and night, but their bread I Ae kiss we took, nae mair-I bad him coud'na win ;

gang awa. And Rob maintain'd them baith, and, wi' I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to

tears in his ee, Said, • Jenny, oh! for their sakes, will you For O, I am but young to cry out, Woe is

dee ;

me!

marry me!

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We kissed his clay.cold hands-a smile

came o'er his face ; • He's pardon'd,' Jamie said, “before the

throne o' grace. Oh, Jenny! see that smile-forgi'en I'm

sure is he, Wha could withstand temptation when

hoping to win thee?'

• I loved and sought to win her for mony a

laag day; I had her parents' favour, but still she said

me này;

The days at first were dowie; but what But sweeter shines the sun than e'er he was sad and sair,

shone before, While tears were in my een, I kent mysel Fór now I'm Jamie's wife, and what need nae mair ;

I say more! For, oh! my heart was light as ony bird We hae a wee bit bairn—the auld folks by that flew,

the fire And, wae as a' thing was, it had a kind. And Jamie, oh! he loo's me up to my ly hue.

heart's desire.

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