When Morine, deceas’d, to the Devil went down,
     ’Twas nothing would serve him but Satan’s own crown;
     “Thy fool’s head,” quoth Satan, “that crown shall wear never,
     I grant thou’rt as wicked, but not quite so clever.”

Song—­Phillis The Fair

     Tune—­“Robin Adair.”

     While larks, with little wing,
     Fann’d the pure air,
     Tasting the breathing Spring,
     Forth I did fare: 
     Gay the sun’s golden eye
     Peep’d o’er the mountains high;
     Such thy morn! did I cry,
     Phillis the fair.

     In each bird’s careless song,
     Glad I did share;
     While yon wild-flowers among,
     Chance led me there! 
     Sweet to the op’ning day,
     Rosebuds bent the dewy spray;
     Such thy bloom! did I say,
     Phillis the fair.

     Down in a shady walk,
     Doves cooing were;
     I mark’d the cruel hawk
     Caught in a snare: 
     So kind may fortune be,
     Such make his destiny,
     He who would injure thee,
     Phillis the fair.

Song—­Had I A Cave

     Tune—­“Robin Adair.”

     Had I a cave on some wild distant shore,
     Where the winds howl to the wave’s dashing roar: 
     There would I weep my woes,
     There seek my lost repose,
     Till grief my eyes should close,
     Ne’er to wake more!

     Falsest of womankind, can’st thou declare
     All thy fond, plighted vows fleeting as air! 
     To thy new lover hie,
     Laugh o’er thy perjury;
     Then in thy bosom try
     What peace is there!

Song—­By Allan Stream

     By Allan stream I chanc’d to rove,
     While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi;
     The winds are whispering thro’ the grove,
     The yellow corn was waving ready: 
     I listen’d to a lover’s sang,
     An’ thought on youthfu’ pleasures mony;
     And aye the wild-wood echoes rang—­
     “O, dearly do I love thee, Annie!

     “O, happy be the woodbine bower,
     Nae nightly bogle make it eerie;
     Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,
     The place and time I met my Dearie! 
     Her head upon my throbbing breast,
     She, sinking, said, ‘I’m thine for ever!’
     While mony a kiss the seal imprest—­
     The sacred vow we ne’er should sever.”

     The haunt o’ Spring’s the primrose-brae,
     The Summer joys the flocks to follow;
     How cheery thro’ her short’ning day,
     Is Autumn in her weeds o’ yellow;
     But can they melt the glowing heart,
     Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure? 
     Or thro’ each nerve the rapture dart,
     Like meeting her, our bosom’s treasure?

Whistle, And I’ll Come To You, My Lad