Occupations > Lord Ruthven's daughter, an ancient ballad

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r go and feck foine ftranger’s doer,
' fjr pity I n*ne* , -
; there’s none in the fither’s-breaft,
i yet itill thou art a,man :
» louder howls the northern blaft,
) Q louder cries my fon 1
a yonder vault thy mother lies,
Ww m mld’rin’ in the clay;
HI reach to thee the death-houfe key,
and well thou knoweil the way l
deneath the cloud of night I’ll ly ;
my Lord, thy will be done :
f[’ll feek death’s cold abode this night,
but fave, O fave my fon!
—XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXJKXXXXXXKHCXXXX—
THE LOVELY MAID
THAT TENDS THE GOATS.
Up amang yon cliffy rocks,
fweetly rings the rifing echo
To the maid that tends the goats,
Lilting o’er her native notes.