He's caught her by the milk-white hand,
And by the grass-green sleeve;
He's mounted her hie behind himsel',
At her kinsfolk spier'd na leave.

It's up, it's up the Couden bank,
It's doun the Couden brae;
And aye they made the trumpet soun,
"It's a' fair play!"

Now a' ye lords and gentlemen
That be of England born,
Come ye na doun to Scotland thus,
For fear ye get the scorn!

They'll feed ye up wi' flattering words,
And play ye foul play;
They'll dress you frogs instead of fish
Upon your wedding-day!

* * * * *


GLENLOGIE.

Threescore o' nobles rade to the king's ha',
But bonnie Glenlogie's the flower o' them a';
Wi' his milk-white steed and his bonny black e'e,
"Glenlogie, dear mither, Glenlogie for me!"