O dawn of day, in rosy bower, GOOD NIGHT, GOOD NIGHT! JOANNA BAILLIE. The sun is sunk, the day is done, It needs must be, Good night, good night! The bride into her bower is sent, And ribald rhyme and jesting spent ; The lover's whisper'd words and few Have bade the bashful maid adieu; The dancing-floor is silent quite, No foot bounds there, Good night, good night! The lady in her curtain'd bed, The herdsman in his wattled shed, The clansmen in the heather'd hall, Sweet sleep be with you, one and all! As this now gone, Good night, good night! Sweet sleep be with us one and all ; The visions of a busy brain, We'll have our pleasure o'er again, To warm the heart, to charm the sight, LOW GERMANIE. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. As I sail'd past green Jura's isle, I heard a voice-a sweet low voice, With ae babe at her bosom, and Another at her knee, A mother wail'd the bloody wars In Low Germanie. Oh woe unto these cruel wars That ever they began, For they have swept my native isle For first they took my brethren twain, Then wiled my love frae me. Woe, woe unto the cruel wars In Low Germanie And furrow'd far the brine; And down his foes came to the shore, In many a glittering line: The war-steeds rush'd amang the waves, The guns came flashing free, But could nae keep my gallant love From Low Germanie. Oh say, ye maidens, have ye seen, An eye that flashes fierce for all, But ever mild to me? Oh that's the lad who loves me best In Low Germanie. Where'er the cymbal's sound is heard, And horses rush to war; The blithest at the banquet board, And first in war is he, The bonnie lad, whom I love best, I sit upon the high green land, And think I see my true-love's sail With ae bairn at my bosom, and NORA'S VOW. SIR WALTER SCOTT. Hear what highland Nora said: I would not wed the Earlie's son. A maiden's vows, old Callum spoke, Yet, Nora, ere its bloom be gone, May blithely wed the Earlie's son. The swan, she said, the lake's clear breast The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn, Still in the water-lily's shade Her wonted nest the wild swan made, No highland brogue has turned the heel; She's wedded to the Earlie's son. |