What lips dare kiss, or what hand dare touch,

Or what arm of love dare span

The honey lips, the creamy palm,

Or the waist of Lady Ann!

She kisses the lips of her bonnie red rose,

Wat wi' the blobs of dew;

But nae gentle lip, nor semple lip,

Maun touch her Lady mou.

But a broider'd belt, wi' a buckle of gold,

Her jimpy waist maun span―

O she's an armfu' fit for heaven,
My bonnie Lady Ann!

Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers,

Tied up wi' silver thread,

An' comely sits she in the midst,

Men's longing een to feed,

She waves the ringlets frae her cheek,

Wi' her milky, milky han',

An' her cheeks seem touch'd wi' the finger of God, My bonnie Lady Ann!

The morning cloud is tassel'd wi' gold,

Like my love's broider'd

cap,

love wears

An' on the mantle which my

Is monie a golden drap.

Her bonnie eebrow's a holie arch

Cast by no earthlie han';

And the breath of God's atween the lips

Of my bonnie Lady Ann!

I am her father's gardener lad,

An' poor, poor is my fa';

My auld mither gets my sair-won fee,

Wi' fatherless bairnies twa.

My een are bauld, they dwall on a place
Where I darena mint my han’,

But I water, and tend, and kiss the flowers
Of my bonnie Lady Ann.

My hamely hearth burn'd bonnie,
And smiled my fair Marie,—
I've left a' my heart behind me,
In my ain countree.

The bud comes back to summer,
An' the blossom to the bee,
But I win back-oh never!
Το my ain countree.
I'm leal to the high heaven,

Which will be leal to me;

An' there I'll meet ye a' soon,
Frae my ain countree.

POVERTY PARTS GUDE COMPANIE.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

When white was my oerlay as foam of the linn,
And siller was chinking my pouches within;
When my
lambkins were bleating on meadow and brae,
As I gaed to my love in new cleeding sae gay;
Kind was she and my
friends were free,
But poverty parts gude companie.

How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of delight!

The piper play'd cheerly, the crusie burnt bright,

VOL. IV.

X

And linked in my hand was the maiden sae dear,
As she footed the floor in her holiday geer.
Woe is me, and can it then be,

That poverty parts sic companie?

We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk,
We met in the sunshine, we met in the mirk;

And the sound of her voice, and the blinks of her een,
The cheering and life of my bosom have been.

Leaves frae the tree at Martinmas flee,
And poverty parts sweet companie.

At bridal and infare I've braced me wi' pride
The bruse I hae won and a kiss of the bride;
And loud was the laughter gay fellows among,
When I uttered my banter or chorused my song.
Dowie to dree are jesting and glee,

When poverty parts gude companie.

Wherever I gaed the blithe lasses smiled sweet,
And mithers and aunties were mair than discreet,
While kebbuck and beaker were set on the board,
But now they pass by me, and never a word.
So let it be for the worldly and slie
Wi' poverty keep nae companie.

But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart;
The spae-wife has tauld me to keep up my heart;
For wi' my last sixpence her loof I hae cross'd,
And the bliss that is fated can never be lost.
Cruelly though we ilka day see

How poverty parts dear companie.

COME, TOOM THE STOUP.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Come, toom the stoup! let the merry sun shine
On sculptured cups and the rich man's wine;
Come, toom the stoup! from the bearded bere,
And the heart of corn, comes our life-drink dear.
The reap-hook, the sheaf, and the flail for me;
Away with the drink of the slave's vine tree!
The spirit of malt, sae free and sae frank,
Is my minted money and bonds in the bank.

Come, toom up the stoup! what must be, must;
I'm cauld and canker'd, and dry as dust;
A simmering stoup of this glorious weet
Gives soaring plumes to time's leaden feet :
Let yon stately madam, so mim and so shy,
Arch her white neck proud, and sail prouder by;
The spirit of malt, so frank and so free,

Is daintier than midnight madam to me.

Drink fills us with joy and gladness, and soon
Hangs canker'd care on the horns of the moon;
Is bed and bedding; and love and mirth

Dip their wings in drink ere they mount from the earth.