How can I busk a bonny bonny bride?

How can I busk a winsome marrow?

How luve him on the banks of Tweed, That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow?

O Yarrow fields, may never never rain, Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, For there was basely slain my luve, My luve, as he had not been a lover.

The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, His purple vest--'twas my awn sewing: Ah! wretched me! I little, little kenn'd He was in these to meet his ruin.

The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, Unheedful of my dule and sorrow: But ere the toofall of the night He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

Much I rejoyc'd that waeful waeful day; I sang, my voice the woods returning: But lang ere night the spear was flown, That slew my luve, and left me mourning.

What can my barbarous barbarous father do, But with his cruel rage pursue me?

My luver's blood is on thy spear-- How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?

My happy sisters may be, may be proud With cruel and ungentle scoffin', May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes My luver nailed in his coffin.

My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, And strive with threatning words to muve me: My luver's blood is on thy spear-- How canst thou ever bid me luve thee?

Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve, With bridal sheets my body cover, Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door!

Let in the expected husband-luver.

But who the expected husband husband is?

His hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaughter.

Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after?

Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down, O lay his cold head on my pillow!

Take aff, take aff these bridal weids, And crown my careful head with willow.

Pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best beluv'd, O could my warmth to life restore thee!

Ye'd lye all night between my breists-- No youth lay ever there before thee!

Pale, pale indeed, O luvely luvely youth, Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, And lye all night between my breists, No youth shall ever lye there after.

_A._ Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride!

Return and dry thy useless sorrow!

Thy luver heeds none of thy sighs, He lyes a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

THE SHEPHERD'S HOME

WILLIAM SHENSTONE

My banks they are furnished with bees, Whose murmur invites one to sleep; My grottoes are shaded with trees, And my hills are white over with sheep.

I seldom have met with a loss, Such health do my fountains bestow; My fountains all bordered with moss, Where the harebells and violets blow.

Not a pine in the grove is there seen, But with tendrils of woodbine is bound; Not a beech's more beautiful green, But a sweet-briar entwines it around.

Not my fields in the prime of the year, More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear, But it glitters with fishes of gold.

I have found out a gift for my fair, I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me such plunder forbear, She will say 'twas a barbarous deed; For he ne'er could be true, she averred, Who would rob a poor bird of its young; And I loved her the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN

WILLIAM COWPER

John Gilpin was a citizen Of credit and renown, A train-band captain eke was he Of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear: 'Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen.

'To-morrow is our wedding-day, And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton All in a chaise and pair.

'My sister, and my sister's child, Myself and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we.'

He soon replied: 'I do admire Of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear; Therefore, it shall be done.

'I am a linen-draper bold, As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calender Will lend his horse to go.'

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin: 'That's well said; And for that wine is dear, We will be furnished with our own, Which is both bright and clear.'

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; O'erjoyed was he to find That, though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allowed To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was stayed, Where they did all get in; Six precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin.

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Were never folk so glad; The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside were mad.

John Gilpin at his horse's side Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride, But soon came down again;

For saddle-tree scarce reached had he, His journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, Would trouble him much more.

'Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind, When Betty screaming came down stairs: 'The wine is left behind!'

'Good lack!' quoth he--'yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise, In which I bear my trusty sword When I do exercise.'

Now Mrs. Gilpin--careful soul!-- Had two stone-bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved, And keep it safe and sound.

Each bottle had a curling ear, Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side, To make his balance true.

Then over all, that he might be Equipped from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, He manfully did throw.