St. Anthony's Well, beside St. Anthony's ruined Chapel, near Edinburgh, is probably the best known of Scottish wishing-wells. Its sanative virtues have already been alluded to, but it is nowadays more noted for its power of securing the fulfilment of wishes than the recovery of health. A pleasant picture of the romantic spot is given by Sir Daniel Wilson in his "Memorials of Edinburgh in the Olden Time":--"The ancient Hermitage and Chapel of St. Anthony, underneath the overhanging crags of Arthur's Seat, are believed to have formed a dependency of the preceptory at Leith, and to have been placed there, to catch the seaman's eye as he entered the Firth, or departed on some long and perilous voyage; when his vows and offerings would be most freely made to the patron saint, and the hermit who ministered at his altar. No record, however, now remains to add to the tradition of its dedication to St. Anthony; but the silver stream, celebrated in the plaintive old song, 'O waly, waly up yon bank,' still wells clearly forth at the foot of the rock, filling the little basin of St. Anthony's Well, and rippling pleasantly through the long grass into the lower valley." The song in question gives expression to the grief of Lady Barbara Erskine, wife of James, Marquis of Douglas, in the time of Charles II., in connection with her desertion by her husband-- 1. "O waly, waly up the bank And waly, waly down the brae, And waly, waly yon burnside, Where I and my love wont to gae! I lean'd my back unto an aik, I thoucht it was a trusty tree; But first it bow'd, and syne it brak: Sae my true love did lichtly me. 2. O waly, waly, but love be bonnie A little time while it is new; But when it's auld, it waxes cauld, And fades away like morning dew. O wherefore should I busk my heid, Or wherefore should I kame my hair? For my true love has me forsook, And says he'll never love me mair. 3. Now Arthur's Seat shall be my bed, The sheets shall ne'er be pressed by me. St. Anton's Well shall be my drink Since my true love has forsaken me. Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves aff the tree? O gentle death! when wilt thou come? For of my life I am wearie! 4. 'Tis not the frost that freezes fell Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie; 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my love's heart's grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow toun We were a comely sicht to see; My love was clad in the black velvet, And I mysel in cramasie.