For her forbears were brought in ships
Frae yont the Tweed:

A bonnier fleesh ne'er crossed the clips
Than Mailie dead.1

Wae worth the man wha first did shape
That vile, wanchancie thing a rape!
It makes guid fellows girn and gape,
Wi' chokin' dread;

And Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape,
For Mailie dead.

Oh a' ye bards on bonnie Doon!
And wha on Ayr your chanters tune!
Come, join the melancholious croon
O' Robin's reed!

His heart will never get aboon

His Mailie's dead!

fleece

unlucky

grin

moan

1 Variation in original MS.:

She was nae get o' runted rams,

stunted

Wi' woo like goats, and legs like trams; wagon-shafts

She was the flower o' Fairly lambs,

A famous breed;

Now Robin, greetin', chows the hams

weeping

O' Mailie dead.

JOHN BARLEYCORN-A BALLAD.1

THERE were three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high;

And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and ploughed him down,

Put clods upon his head;

And they hae sworn a solemn oath,

John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on,
And showers began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of summer came,
And he grew thick and strong;
His head weel armed wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

1 This is an improvement upon an early song of probably English origin, of which Mr. Robert Jameson has given a copy in his Ballads (2 vols. 8vo.), which he obtained from a black-letter sheet in the Pepys Library, Cambridge.

The sober autumn entered mild,

When he grew wan and pale; His bending joints and drooping head Shewed he began to fail.

His colour sickened more and more,

He faded into age;

And then his enemies began

To shew their deadly rage.

They've taen a weapon, long and sharp,

And cut him by the knee; Then tied him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgelled him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turned him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim;
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor
To work him further wo;
And still, as signs of life appeared,
They tossed him to and fro.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame

The marrow of his bones ;

But a miller used him worst of all,

For he crushed him 'tween two stones.

And they hae taen his very heart's blood,
And drunk it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise ;

For if you do but taste his blood,

"Twill make your courage rise.

"Twill make a man forget his wo;
"Twill heighten all his joy :
"Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Though the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity

Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

MARY MORRISON.

The year 1783, and the early part of 1784, witnessed various love-affairs of the poet, of which we have bnt an obscure account. One of these is merely indicated in the beautiful song of Mary Morrison.

OH Mary, at thy window be,

It is the wished, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor:
How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morrison.

Yestreen when to the trembling string,
The dance gaed through the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard nor saw.
Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sighed, and said amang them a':
'Ye are na Mary Morrison.'

Oh Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?

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