They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie,
They'll live or die wi' fame;

But sune wi' sound and victorie

May Kenmure's lord come hame !

Here's him that's far awa, Willie,
Here's him that's far awa;
And here's the flower that I lo'e best,
The rose that's like the snaw.*

O! AS I WAS KIST YESTREEN.

TUNE-O, as I was kist yestreen.

O, AS I was kist yestreen!

O, as I was kist yestreen!

I'll never forget till the day that I dee,
Sae mony braw kisses his grace gae me!

My father was sleeping, my mother was out,
And I was my lane, and in cam the Duke:
I'll never forget till the day that I dee,
Sae mony braw kisses his grace gae me.

Kist yestreen, kist yestreen,

Up the Gallowgate, down the Green:
I'll never forget till the day that I dee,
Sae mony braw kisses his grace gae me.†

From Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song, 1810. From Herd's Collection, 1776, where it is mentioned that the song was written "on the late Duke of Argyle." In Johnson's Scots Musical Museum the particular Duke of Argyle is more distinctly specified. The song is there said to have been "composed on an amour of John Duke of Argyle," the hero of Sheriff-muir, and whom Pope so justly described as

"Argyle, the state's whole thunder born to wield,
And shake alike the senate and the field."

May it be possible, since Duke John is so confidently stated to have written the song beginning "Argyle is my name," that he may have also written this light-headed ditty?

THE LASS THAT MADE THE BED

TO ME.*

BURNS.

WHEN Januar winds were blawin' cauld,
Unto the north I bent my way,
The mirksome nicht did me enfauld,
I kend na where to lodge till day;
But by good luck a lass I met,
Just in the middle of my care,
And kindly she did me invite
To walk into a chamber fair.

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid,
And thank'd her for her courtesie;
I bow'd fu' low unto this maid,

And bade her make the bed to me.
She made the bed baith wide and braid,
Wi' twa white hands she spread it doun;
She put the cup to her
rosy lips,

And drank, Young man, now sleep ye soun.

She snatch'd the candle in her hand,

And from the chamber went wi' speed:

But I ca'd her quickly back again,
To lay some mair beneath my heid.

A cod she laid beneath my heid,
And served me with a due respect;
And, to salute her wi' a kiss,
I put my arms about her neck.

Haud aff hands, young man,

your

And dinna sae uncivil be;

she says,

There is an older and coarser song, containing the same incidents, and said to have been occasioned by an adventure of Charles II., when that monarch resided in Scotland with the Presbyterian army, 1650-51. The affair happened at the house of Port-Lethem, in Aberdeenshire, and it was a daughter of the laird that made the bed to the king.

It will be time to speak the morn,
If ye hae ony love for me.
Her hair was like the links o' gowd,
Her teeth were like the ivorie,
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine,
The lass that made the bed to me.

Her bosom was the driven snaw,
Twa driftit heaps sae fair to see;
Her limbs the polish'd marble stane,
The lass that made the bed to me.
I kiss'd her ower and ower again,

And aye she wistna what to say;
I laid her 'tween me and the wa';
The lassie thocht na lang till day.

Upon the morrow, when we rase,
I thank'd her for her courtesie;
And aye she blush'd, and aye she sigh'd,
And said, Alas! ye've ruin'd me.
I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne,
While the tear stood twinklin' in her ee;
I said, My lassie, dinna cry,

For ye aye shall mak the bed to me.

She took her mother's Holland sheets,
And made them a' in sarks to me;
Blythe and merry may she be,

The lass that made the bed to me.
The bonnie lass that made the bed to me,
The braw lass that made the bed to me;

I'll ne'er forget, till the day I dee,

The lass that made the bed to me.

MY KIMMER AND I.

WHEN kimmer and I were groom and bride,
We had twa pint-stoups at our bedside;
Sax times fu', and sax times dry,
And rase for drouth-my kimmer and I.

My kimmer and I gaed to the fair
Wi' twall pund Scots on sarkin to ware;
But we drank the gude brown hawkie dry,
And sarkless cam hame my kimmer and I.

My kimmer and I gaed to the toun,
For wedding-breeks and a wedding-gown;
But the sleekie auld priest he wat our eye
In sackcloth gowns-my kimmer and I.

My kimmer and I are scant o' claes,
Wi' soups o' drink and soups o' brose;
But late we rise and soon gae lie,
And cantilie live my kimmer and I.

My kimmer is auld, my kimmer is bent,
And I'm gaun loutin ower a kent;

The well o' life is dribblin dry,

And drouthie, drouthie are kimmer and I.*

WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

WHERE shall the lover rest,

Whom the fates sever

* From Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song, 1810.

From his true maiden's breast,
Parted for ever?

Where, through groves deep and high,
Sounds the far billow,

Where early violets die

Under the willow.

There, through the summer day,
Cool streams are laving;
There, while the tempest's sway,
Scarce are boughs waving;
There thy rest shalt thou take,
Parted for ever,

Never again to wake,

Never, O never!

Where shall the traitor rest,

He the deceiver,

Who could win maiden's breast,
Ruin, and leave her?
In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying,

Where mingles war's rattle

With groans of the dying.

His wing shall the eagle flap
O'er the false-hearted;

His warm blood the wolf shall lap

Ere life be parted; Shame and dishonour sit

By his grave ever;

Blessing shall hallow it-
Never, O never!