My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
My idle greyhound loathes his food,
My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrall.
I wish I were as I have been,
Hunting the hart in forests green,
With bended bow and bloodhound free,
For that's the life is meet for me.
I hate to learn the ebb of time,
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,
Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,
Inch after inch, along the wall.
The lark was wont my matin ring,
The sable rook my vespers sing;
These towers, although a king's they be,
Have not a hall of joy for me.
No more at dawning morn I rise,
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
Drive the fleet deer the forest through,
And homeward wend with evening dew;
A blithesome welcome blithely meet,
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the eve on wing of glee—
That life is lost to love and me.
Ae kind word frae my love
Would charm frae yule to yule.
Our gudewife's come hame
Mute now maun I woo;
But my love's bright glances
Shine a' the chamber through.
O sweet is her voice
When she sings at her wark,
Sweet the touch of her hand,
And her vows in the dark.
Earl March look'd on his dying child,
And smit with grief to view her-
The youth, he cried, whom I exiled
Shall be restored to woo her.
She's at the window many an hour,
His coming to discover;
And her love look'd up to Ellen's bower,
And she look'd on her lover.
But ah! so pale, he knew her not,
Though her smile on him was dwelling.
And am I then forgot-forgot?—
It broke the heart of Ellen.
In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,
Her cheek is cold as ashes;
Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes
To lift their silken lashes.
Gay is thy glen, Corrie,
With all thy groves flowering;
Green is thy glen, Corrie,
When July is showering;
And sweet is yon wood where
The small birds are bowering,
For there dwells the sweet one
Whom I am adoring.
Her round neck is whiter
Than winter when snowing;
Her meek voice is milder
Than Ae in its flowing;
The glad ground yields music
Where she goes by the river; One kind glance would charm me ·For ever and ever.
JOHN MAYNE, ESQ.
Jenny's heart was frank and free, And wooers she had mony, yet Of a' I see,
Commend me to my Johnie yet. For, air and late, he has sic gate
To mak' a body cheerie, that
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