Burns (New Version).

MY PRETTY JANE.

My pretty Jane, my pretty Jane! 
  Ah! never, never look so shy;
But meet me in the evening,
  While the bloom is on the rye. 
The spring is waning fast, my love,
  The corn is in the ear,
The summer nights are coming, love,
  The moon shines bright and clear. 
Then, pretty Jane, my dearest Jane! 
  Ah! never look so shy,
But meet me in the evening,
  While the bloom is on the rye. 
But name the day, the wedding day,
  And I will buy the ring;
The lads and maids in favours white
  And village bells shall ring. 
The spring is waning fast, my love,
  The corn is in the ear,
The summer nights are coming, love,
  The moon shines bright and clear. 
Then, pretty Jane, my dearest Jane! 
  Ah! never look so shy,
But meet me in the evening,
  While the bloom is on the rye.

        Edward Fitzball.

ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP.

Rock’d in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep; Secure, I rest upon the wave, For Thou, O Lord, hast pow’r to save.  I know Thou wilt not slight my call, For Thou dost note the sparrow’s fall, And calm and peaceful is my sleep, Rock’d in the cradle of the deep.

And such the trust that still were mine,
Tho’ stormy winds swept o’er the brine;
Or though the tempest’s fiery breath
Rous’d me from sleep to wreck and death! 
In ocean cave still safe with Thee,
The germ of immortality;
And calm and peaceful is my sleep,
Rock’d in the cradle of the deep.

        Mrs. Willard.

THE MINSTREL BOY.

The Minstrel boy to the war is gone,
  In the ranks of death you’ll find him;
His father’s sword he has girded on,
  And his wild harp slung behind him.—­
“Land of song!” said the warrior-bard,
  “Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
  One faithful harp shall praise thee!”
The Minstrel fell!—­but the foeman’s chain
  Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne’er spoke again,
  For he tore its cords asunder;
And said, “No chains shall sully thee,
  Thou soul of love and bravery! 
Thy songs were made for the brave and free,
  They shall never sound in slavery!”

        Thomas Moore.

ON THE BANKS OF ALLAN WATER.

On the banks of Allan Water, When the sweet Springtime did fall, Was the miller’s lovely daughter, The fairest of them all.  For his bride a soldier sought her, And a winning tongue had he:  On the banks of Allan Water, None so gay as she.

On the banks of Allan Water,
  When brown Autumn spreads its store,
Then I saw the miller’s daughter,
  But she smiled no more;
For the Summer grief had brought her,
  And the soldier false was he;
On the banks of Allan Water,
  None so sad as she.