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O what'll she do in heaven, my lassie,

O what'll she do in heaven?

She'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angel's sangs,

And make them mair meet for heaven.

She was dearly beloved by a', my lassie,
She was dearly beloved by a';
But an angel fell in love wi' her,
And took her frae us a".

Lowly there thou lies, my lassie,

Lowly there thou lies:

A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird,
Nor frae it will arise!

Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie,
Fu' soon I'll follow thee;

Thou left me nought to covet ahin',
But took gudeness sel' wi' thee.

I look'd on thy death-cold face, my lassie,
I look'd on thy death cold face;
Thou seem'd a lily new cut i' the bud,
And fading in its place.

I look'd on thy death-shut eye, my lassie,
I look'd on thy death shut eye;

And a lovelier light in the brow of heaven,
Fell time shall ne'er destroy.

Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie,
Thy lips were ruddy and calm;

But gane was the holie breath o' heaven,
To sing the evening psalm.

There's naught but dust now mine, lassie,
There's naught but dust now mine;
My saul's wi' thee i' the cauld grave,
And why should I stay behin'!

CCLVI.

ISABELLE.

A SERENADE.

Isabelle! Isabelle! hark to my soft lute,
As mournful it melteth o'er

The sorrows of one whose lips are mute,
And whose heart shall beat no more.
List to its wailings and plaints, my love,
Sad as the accents of saints, my love,
When the sins of men they deplore

Awake from your slumbers, my Isabelle,

Oh! list to its murmurings,

They breathe not to blame thee-they sigh but to tell The anguish that moves their strings.

Lo, the moon seems to weep on her way my love, And, shrouded in clouds, seems to say, my love, "No hope with the morrow springs."

Hark! on the breeze booms the heavy sound
Of the neighbouring convent's bell,

And its walls, ere a few short hours wheel round,

Shall inclose thee, my Isabelle :

And thou shalt be torn from my arms, my love,
And buried in all thy charms, my love,

Where these midnight requiems swell.

I see thee before the high altar kneel,
And the crucifix trembling embrace,
And the sable veil o'er the brightness steal
Of thy lovely and holy face:

And thou shalt fade in thy bloom, my love,
While I shall wend to the tomb, my love,
Where hearts no woe can feel.

We grew, and we lov'd, in youth's sunny day,
Like twin flowers in a dewy vale,

But the pilgrim's rude hand pluck'd one bud away,

And the other was strown by the gale.

Our hearts, upon earth, were as one, my love,

And now when thine is gone, my love,

Mine also its doom shall hail,

CCLVII.

DESPAIRING MARY.

Mary, why thus waste thy youth-time in sorrow?
See a' around you the flowers sweetly blaw;
Blythe sets the sun o'er the wild cliffs of Jura,
Blythe sings the mavis in ilka green shaw.
"How can this heart ever mair think of pleasure,
Summer may smile, but delight I hae nane;
Caul in the grave lies my heart's only treasure,
Nature seems dead since my Jamie is gane.

"This 'kerchief he gave me, a true lover's token, Dear, dear to me was the gift for his sake!

I wear't near my heart, but this poor heart is broken,
Hope died with Jamie, and left it to break.

Sighing for brim I lie down in the e'ening,
Sighing for him I awake in the morn;
Spent are my days a' in secret repining,
Peace to this bosom can never return.

"Oft have we wander'd in sweetest retirement, Telling our loves 'neath the moon's silent beam, Sweet were our meetings of tender endearment,

But fled are these joys like a fleet-passing dream,

Cruel Remembrance, ah! why wilt thou wreck me,
Brooding o'er joys that for ever are flown!
Cruel Remembrance, in pity forsake me,
Flee to some bosom where grief is unknown!"

CCLVIII.

WILL HE NO COME BACK AGAIN.

Will he no come back again,
Will he no come back again,
Hey, Charlie's now awa',

And will he no come back again?

Mony a traitor 'mang the hills,

Sought to draw-sought to draw,

Mony a traitor 'mang the hills,

Sought to draw his life awa'.

* These Jacobite verses were handed us by a gentleman who has shewn much interest in the prosperity of this publication, and who signs himself R. M. Glasgow. "I recovered them" says he, "from the recitation of an old woman from Galloway. I do not know that they ever appeared in print. She says, the song was current in her part of the country about forty years ago, but for the last fifteen or twenty years she has scarcely ever heard it sung. This is all the information I can acquire respecting the piece. The verses are natural and simple," &c. 1819.

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