Thus

sang blate Edie by a burn,

His Chirsty did o'erhear him;
She doughtna let her lover mourn,

But ere he wist drew near him.

She spake her favour by a look,
Which left nae room to doubt her:
He wisely this white minute took,
And flang his arms about her.

My Chirsty!-witness, bonnie stream,
Sic joy frae tears arising!

I wish this may na be a dream

O love the most surprising!

Time was too precious now for tauk;

This point of a' his wishes

He wadna wi' set speeches bauk,

But wared it a' on kisses.

Ramsay certainly thought very favourably of this song when he placed it foremost in his collection; and though he has written some more fortunate songs, I think its beauty and truth justify his choice. It appears, from the Orpheus Caledonius, that old words once existed for the air to which this song is sung, and with the same name which Ramsay has retained. These words are irrecoverably lost, and we are unable to learn how much of the new song we may owe to the inspiration of the old. This circumstance certainly casts some doubt on the tradition, which says the heroine of this song was Christina, daughter of Dundas of Arniston.

WILLIAM AND MARGARET.

When all was wrapt in dark midnight,
And all were fast asleep,

In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet.

Her face was like an April morn
Clad in a wintry cloud;
And clay-cold was her lily hand
That held her sable shroud.

So shall the fairest face appear
When youth and years are flown;

Such is the robe that kings must wear
When death has reft their crown.

Her bloom was like the springing flow'r
That sips the silver dew;

The rose was budded in her cheek,

Just op'ning to the view.

But love had, like the canker-worm,

Consum'd her early prime:

The rose grew pale, and left her cheek;
She died before her time.

Awake!—she cried; thy true-love calls,

Come from her midnight grave; Now let thy pity hear the maid Thy love refused to save.

ལ

This is the dumb and dreary hour
When injured ghosts complain,
And yawning graves give up their dead,
To haunt the faithless swain.

Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,
Thy pledge and broken oath ;
And give me back my maiden vow,
my troth.

And give me back

Why did you promise love to me,

And not that promise keep?

Why said you that my eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep?

How could you say my face was fair,

And yet that face forsake?

How could

you win

my virgin-heart,

Yet leave that heart to break?

How could you swear my lip was sweet,

And made the scarlet pale?
And why did I, young witless maid,
Believe the flatt'ring tale?

That face, alas! no more is fair,

These lips no longer red;

Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death,

And ev'ry charm is fled.

The hungry worm my sister is;

This winding-sheet I wear:

And cold and weary lasts our night,

Till that last morn appear.

But hark!-the cock has warn'd me hence;

A long and late adieu !

Come see, false man, how low she lies

That died for love of you.

The lark sung out, the morning smiled,

With beams of rosy red;

Pale William quaked in ev'ry limb,
And, raving, left his bed.

He hied him to the fatal place
Where Margaret's body lay,

And stretch'd him on the green grass
That wrapt her breathless clay.

turf

And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name,
And thrice he wept full sore:
Then laid his cheek on her cold

And word spoke never more.

grave,

There is little doubt that Mallet saw more of the ancient ballad of Fair Margaret and Sweet William than he was willing to admit; and that he imitated the story of Sweet William's Ghost in this exquisite ballad. The resemblance is far too close to be accidental; yet he acknowledges acquaintance only with the following six lines woven into the drama of the Knight of the Burning Pestle :

You are no love for me, Margaret,
I am no love for you.

When it was grown to dark midnight,
And all were fast asleep,

In came Margaret's grimly ghost,

And stood at William's feet.

"These lines," says Mallet, "naked of ornament and simple as they are, struck my fancy; and bringing fresh into my mind an unhappy adventure much talked of formerly, gave birth to the following poem, which was written many years ago." Several attempts have been made to alter and improve this exquisite production, but the superior beauty and simplicity of the original copy secure it against all corruption.

WHY HANGS THAT CLOUD?

Why hangs that cloud upon thy brow,
That beauteous heav'n, erewhile serene?
Whence do these storms and tempests flow,
What may this gust of passion mean?
And must then mankind lose that light
Which in thine eyes was wont to shine,

And lie obscure in endless night,

For each poor silly speech of mine?

Dear maid, how can I wrong thy name,

Since 'tis acknowledged, at all hands,