They coost the glamour o'er her. "Gae tak frae me this gay mantle, And bring to me a plaidie; For if kith and kin and a' had sworn, I'll follow the gipsy laddie. [Illustration: 0111] "Yestreen I lay in a weel-made bed, And my good lord beside me; This night I'll lie in a tennant's barn, Whatever shall betide me." "Come to your bed," says Johnie Faa, "O come to your bed, my deary; For I vow and I swear by the hilt of my sword, That your lord shall nae mair come near ye." "I'll go to bed to my Johnie Faa, I'll go to bed to my deary; For I vow and I swear, by what passed yestreen, That my lord shall nae mair come near me. "I'll mak a hap to my Johnie Faa, And I'll mak a hap to my deary; And he's get a' the coat gaes round, And my lord shall nae mair come near me." And when our lord came hame at e'en, And speir'd for his fair lady, The tane she cried, and the other replied, "She's away wi' the gipsy laddie." "Gae saddle to me the black black steed, Gae saddle and make him ready; Before that I either eat or sleep, I'll gae seek my fair lady." And we were fifteen weel-made men, Altho' we were nae bonny; And we were a' put down for ane, A fair young wanton lady. [Illustration: 0113] Waly, Waly, but Love be Bonny O waly, waly up the bank, And waly, waly down the brae, And waly, waly yon burn side, Where I and my love wont to gae. I lean'd my back unto an aik, I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, Sae my true love did lightly me! (_aik_. oak.) O waly, waly, but love be bonny, A little time, while it is new -, But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld, And fades away like morning dew. O wherefore should I busk my head? Or wherefore should I kame my hair? For my true love has me forsook, And says he'll never love me mair. Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed, The sheets shall ne'er be filed by me: Saint 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 off the tree? O gentle death, when wilt thou come? For of my life I am weary. 'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw's inclemency; 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, But my love's heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgow town, We were a comely sight to see; My love was clad in the black velvet, And I mysel' in cramasie. (_filed_, soiled.) But had I wist, before I kiss'd, That love had been sae ill to win, I'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold, And pinn'd it with a silver pin. Oh, oh, if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse's knee, And I mysel' were dead and gane! For a maid again I'll never be. The Bonny Earl of Murray Ye Highlands, and ye Lawlands,