MARGARET DIXON. THE MERMAID. “Oh, where won ye, my bonny lass, Wi’ look sae wild an’ cheery? There’s something in that witching face That I lo’e wonder dearly.” “I live where the harebell never grew, Where the streamlet never ran, Where the winds o’ Heaven never blew— Now find me gin you can.” “’Tis but your wild an’ wily way, The gloaming makes you eerie, For ye are the lass o’ the Braken-Brae, An nae lad maun come near ye: “But I am sick, an’ very sick, Wi’ a passion strange and new, For ae kiss of thy rosy cheeks And lips o’ coral hue.” ... “Go, hie you from this lonely brake, Nor dare your walk renew; For I’m the Maid of the Mountain Lake, An’ I come wi’ the falling dew.” “Be you the maid of the Crystal Wave, Or she of the Braken-Brae; One tender kiss I mean to have; You shall not say me nay. “For beauty’s like the daisy’s vest, That shrinks from the early dew; But soon it opes its bonny breast, An’ sae may it fare wi’ you.” “Kiss but this hand, I humbly sue, Ev’n there I’ll rue the stain; For the breath of men will dim its hue, It will ne’er be pure again. “For passion’s like the burning beal Upon the mountain’s brow, That wastes itself to ashes pale, And sae will it fare with you.” ... “Oh, mother, mother, make my bed, And make it soft and easy; And with the cold dew bathe my head, For pains of anguish seize me: “Or stretch me in the chill blue lake, To quench this bosom’s burning; An’ lay me by yon lonely brake, For hope there’s none returning. “I’ve been where man should not have been, Oft in my lonely roaming; And seen what man should not have seen By greenwood in the gloaming. “Oh, passion’s deadlier than the grave, A’ human things undoing; The Maiden of the Mountain Wave Has lured me to my ruin!” ... ’Tis now an hundred years an’ more, An’ all these scenes are over, Since rose his grave on yonder shore Beneath the wild wood cover; An’ late I saw the Maiden there, Just as the daylight faded, Braiding her locks o’ gowden hair, And singing as she braided: MERMAID’S SONG. Lie still, my love, lie still and sleep, Long is thy night of sorrow; The Maiden of the mountain deep Shall meet you on the morrow. But oh, when shall that morrow be That my true love shall waken? When shall we meet, refined an’ free, Amid the moorland braken? Full low and lonely is thy bed, The worm even flies thy pillow; Where now the lips, so comely red, That kissed me ’neath the willow? Oh, I must laugh, do as I can, Ev’n mid my song of mourning, At all the fuming freaks of man, To which there’s no returning.