"What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flood? What's yonder floats?-Oh, dule and sorrow!

'T is he, the comely swain I slew

Upon the dulefu' braes of Yarrow.

“Wash, oh, wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,
His wounds in tears o' dule and sorrow;
And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,
And lay him on the banks of Yarrow.

"Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb wi' sorrow;
And weep around, in waeful wise,

His hapless fate on the braes of Yarrow!

"Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield, The arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,

The fatal spear that pierced his breast,

His comely breast, on the braes of Yarrow!

"Did I not warn thee not to, not to love,

And warn from fight? But, to my sorrow, Too rashly bold, a stronger arm thou met'st, Thou met'st, and fell on the braes of Yarrow.

Sweet smells the birk; green grows, green grows the

Yellow on Yarrow's braes the gowan;

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock;

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowing!

grass,

"Flows Yarrow sweet? As sweet, as sweet flows Tweed; As green its grass; its gowan as yellow;

As sweet smells on its braes the birk;

The apple from its rocks as mellow!

"Fair was thy love! fair, fair indeed thy love! In flowery bands thou didst him fetter;

Though he was fair, and well-beloved again,
Than I he never loved thee better.

"Busk ye, then, busk, my bonnie, bonnie bride!
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow!
Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed
And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow."

"How can I busk a bonnie, bonnie bride?

How can I busk a winsome marrow?
How can I lo'e him on the banks of Tweed,
That slew my love on the braes of Yarrow?

"Oh Yarrow fields, may never, never rain, Nor dew, thy tender blossoms cover! For there was basely slain my love,

My love, as he had not been a lover.

"The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,
His purple vest-'t was my ain sewing;

Ah, wretched me! I little, little kenned
He was, in these, to meet his ruin.

"The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, Unmindful of my dule and sorrow;

But ere the too fa' of the night,

He lay a corpse on the banks of Yarrow!

"Much I rejoiced that waefu', waefu' day;
I sang, my voice the woods returning;
But lang ere night the spear was flown
That slew my love, and left me mourning.

"What can my barbarous, barbarous father do, But with his cruel rage pursue me?

My lover's blood is on thy spear—

How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?

"My happy sisters may be, may be proud;
With cruel and ungentle scoffing

May bid me seek, on Yarrow braes,
My lover nailed in his coffin.

"My brother Douglas may upbraid,

And strive, with threatening words, to move me; My lover's blood is on thy spear

How canst thou ever bid me love thee?

"Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love! With bridal-sheets my body cover! Unbar, ye bridal-maids, the door!

Let in the expected husband-lover!

"But who the expected husband, husband is?
His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter!
Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon

Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after?

"Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down; Oh lay his cold head on my pillow!

Take off, take off these bridal weeds,

And crown my careful head with willow.

"Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved, Oh could my warmth to life restore thee!

Yet lie all night within my arms—

No youth lay ever there before thee!

"Pale, pale indeed, O lovely, lovely youth! Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,

And lie all night within my arms,

No youth shall ever lie there after!"

"Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride! Return, and dry thy useless sorrow!

Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs;

He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow."

WILLIAM HAMILTON.

The School-Mistress.

AH me! full sorely is my heart forlorn,
To think how modest Worth neglected lies,
While partial Fame doth with her blast adorn
Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp disguise;
Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprise:
Lend me thy clarion; goddess! let me try
To sound the praise of Merit, ere it dies,
Such as I oft have chaunced to espy,
Lost in the dreary shades of dull Obscurity.

In every village mark'd with little spire,
Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to Fame,
There dwells in lowly shed, and mean attire,
A matron old, whom we School-mistress name,
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame;
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent,
Aw'd by the power of this relentless dame
And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent,

For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent.

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree

Which Learning near her little dome did stowe Whilom a twig of small regard to see, Though now so wide its waving branches flow And work the simple vassals mickle woe; For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew, But their limbs shudder'd, and their pulse beat low; And as they look'd they found their horror grew, And shap'd it into rods, and tingled at the view.

So have I seen (who has not, may conceive)
A lifeless phantom near a garden plac'd;

So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave,

Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast;

They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghast;
Sad servitude! such comfortless annoy

May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste!
Ne superstition clog his dance of joy,
No vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy.

Near to this dome is found a patch so green,
On which the tribe their gambols do display,
And at the door imprisoning-board is seen,
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray;
Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day!

The noises intermix'd, which thence resound,

Do Learning's little tenement betray;

Where sits the dame, disguis'd in look profound, And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around.

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,
Emblem right meet of decency does yield:
Her apron dy'd in grain, as blue, I trow,
As is the hare-bell that adorns the field:
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield
Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwin'd,
With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill'd:
And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction join'd,

And fury uncontroll'd, and chastisement unkind.

Few but have kenn'd, in semblance meet portray'd, The childish faces of old Eol's train;

Libs, Notus, Auster: these in frowns array'd, How then would fare or Earth, or Sky, or Main, Were the stern god to give his slaves the rein? And were not she rebellious breasts to quell, And were not she her statutes to maintain, The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the cell, Where comely peace of mind, and decent order dwell.