"With burnish'd brand and musketoon, So gallantly you come,

I read you for a bold Dragoon,

That lists the tuck of drum."

"I list no more the tuck of drum,

No more the trumpet hear; But when the beetle sounds his hum, My comrades take the spear." "And, O! though Brignall banks be fair, And Greta woods be gay,

Yet mickle must the maiden dare,

Would reign my Queen of May!

"Maiden! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I'll die;

The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead, Were better mate than I!

And when I'm with my comrades met,

Beneath the greenwood bough,

What once we were we all forget,

Nor think what we are now."

"Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there
Would grace a summer queen."

BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY.

IN Scarlet towne, where I was borne,
There was a faire maid dwellin,

Made every youth crye, Wel-awaye!
Her name was Barbara Allen.

All in the merrye month of May,

When green buds they were swellin, Young Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay, For love of Barbara Allen.

He sent his man unto her then,

To the town where she was dwellin; "You must come to my master deare, Giff your name be Barbara Allen.

"For death is printed on his face,
And ore his hart is stealin:
Then haste away to comfort him,
O lovely Barbara Allen.”

"Though death be printed on his face,
And ore his harte is stealin,

Yet little better shall he be
For bonny Barbara Allen."

So slowly, slowly, she came up,
And slowly she came nye him;
And all she sayd, when there she came,
"Yong man, I think y'are dying."

He turned his face unto her strait,
With deadlye sorrow sighing;
"O lovely maid, come pity mee,
I'me on my death-bed lying."

"If on your death-bed you doe lye,
What needs the tale you are tellin?
I cannot keep you from your death;
Farewell," sayd Barbara Allen.

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And spied the corps a coming:

'Laye down, laye down the corps," she sayd, "That I may look upon him."

With scornful eye she looked downe,
Her cheeks with laughter swellin;
Whilst all her friends cryd out amain,
"Unworthy Barbara Allen!"

When he was dead, and laid in grave,
Her harte was struck with sorrowe;
"O mother, mother, make my bed,
For I shall dye to-morrowe.

"Hard-harted creature him to slight,
Who loved me so dearlye:

O that I had beene more kind to him,
When he was alive and neare me!"

She, on her death-bed as she laye,
Beg'd to be buried by him;
And sore repented of the daye,

That she did ere denve him.

"Farewell," she sayd, "ye virgins all,
And shun the fault I fell in:
Henceforth take warning by the fall
Of cruel Barbara Allen."

ALICE BRAND.

From THE LADY OF THE LAKE.

Sir Walter Scott.

I.

MERRY it is in the good greenwood,

When the mavis1 and merle 2 are singing, When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry, And the hunter's horn is ringing.

"O Alice Brand, my native land

Is lost for love of you;

And we must hold by wood and wold,

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As outlaws wont to do.

"O Alice, 'twas all for thy locks so bright,
And 'twas all for thine eyes so blue,
That on the night of our luckless flight,
Thy brother bold I slew.

And for vest of pall, thy fingers small,

That wont on harp to stray,

A cloak must shear from the slaughtered deer, To keep the cold away."

O Richard! if my brother died,
'Twas but a fatal chance;
For darkling was the battle tried,
And fortune sped the lance.

"If pall and vair1 no more I wear,
Nor thou the crimson sheen,
As warm, we'll say, is the russet gray,
As gay the forest-green.

"And, Richard, if our lot be hard,

And lost thy native land,

Still Alice has her own Richard,

And he his Alice Brand.”

II.

'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood,
So blithe Lady Alice is singing;

On the beech's pride, and oak's brown side,
Lord Richard's axe is ringing.

Like wind in the porch of a ruined church,
His voice was ghostly shrill.

"Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak, Our moonlight circle's screen?