Who has read the ballad of "Puir Mary Lee"--that old Scotch ballad, written I know not in what generation nor by what hand? Mary had been ill-used--probably in being made to believe that truth which was falsehood. She is not complaining, but she is sitting alone in the snowstorm, and you hear her thoughts. They are not the thoughts of a model heroine under her circumstances, but they are those of a deeply-feeling, strongly-resentful peasant-girl. Anguish has driven her from the ingle-nook of home to the white-shrouded and icy hills. Crouched under the "cauld drift," she recalls every image of horror--"the yellow-wymed ask," "the hairy adder," "the auld moon-bowing tyke," "the ghaist at e'en,", "the sour bullister," "the milk on the taed's back." She hates these, but "waur she hates Robin-a-Ree."
"Oh, ance I lived happily by yon bonny burn-- The warld was in love wi' me; But now I maun sit 'neath the cauld drift and mourn, And curse black Robin-a-Ree!
"Then whudder awa, thou bitter biting blast, And sough through the scrunty tree, And smoor me up in the snaw fu' fast, And n'er let the sun me see!
"Oh, never melt awa, thou wreath o' snaw, That's sae kind in graving me; But hide me frae the scorn and guffaw O' villains like Robin-a-Ree!"
