Classic Poem

When the gledd 's in the blue cloud,
The lavrock lies still;
When the hound 's in the green-wood,
The hind keeps the hill.

" O sleep ye sound, Sir James," she said,
" When ye sold rise and ride?
There 's twenty men, wi' bow and blade,
Are seeking where ye hide."

I glance like the wildfire thro' country and town;
I 'm seen on the causeway — I 'm seen on the down;
The lightning that flashes so bright and so free,
Is scarcely so blithe or so bonny as me.

What did ye wi' the bridal ring — bridal ring — bridal ring?
What did ye wi' your wedding ring, ye little cutty quean, O?
I gied it till a sodger, a sodger, a sodger,
I gied it till a sodger, an auld true love o' mine, O.

Good even, good fair moon, good even to thee;
I prithee, dear moon, now show to me
The form and the features, the speech and degree,
Of the man that true lover of mine shall be.

It is the bonny butcher lad,
That wears the sleeves of blue;
He sells the flesh on Saturday,
On Friday that he slew.

There 's a bloodhound ranging Tinwald Wood,
There 's harness glancing sheen;
There 's a maiden sits on Tinwald brae,
And she sings loud between.

With my curtch on my foot, and my shoe on my hand,
I glance like the wildfire through brugh and through land.

In the bonnie cells of Bedlam,
Ere I was ane and twenty,
I had hempen bracelets strong,
And merry whips, ding-dong,
And prayer and fasting plenty.

I 'm Madge of the country, I 'm Madge of the town,
And I 'm Madge of the lad I am blithest to own, —
The Lady of Beever in diamonds may shine,
But has not a heart half so lightsome as mine.

I am Queen of the Wake, and I 'm Lady of May,
And I lead the blithe ring round the Maypole to-day;
The wild-fire that flashes so fair and so free
Was never so bright, or so bonnie as me.

Our work is over — over now,
The goodman wipes his weary brow,
The last long wain wends slow away,
And we are free to sport and play.

The night comes on when sets the sun,
And labor ends when day is done.
When Autumn 's gone, and Winter 's come,
We hold our jovial harvest-home.

When the fight of grace is fought, —
When the marriage vest is wrought, —
When Faith has chased cold Doubt away —
And Hope but sickens at delay, —
When Charity, imprisoned here,
Longs for a more expanded sphere;
Doff thy robes of sin and clay;
Christian, rise, and come away.

Cauld is my bed, Lord Archibald,
And sad my sleep of sorrow;
But thine sall be as sad and cauld,
My fause true love! to-morrow.

And weep ye not, my maidens free,
Though death your mistress borrow;
For he for whom I die to-day,
Shall die for me to-morrow.

Proud Maisie is in the wood,
Walking so early;
Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
Singing so rarely.

" Tell me, thou bonny bird,
When shall I marry me?" —
" When six braw gentlemen
Kirkward shall carry ye."

" Who makes the bridal bed,
Birdie, say truly?" —
" The gray-headed sexton
That delves the grave duly.

" The glow-worm o'er grave and stone
Shall light thee steady.
The owl from the steeple sing,
" Welcome, proud lady. " "