Let pow'rful music too essay
The magic of her hidden lay :
While each harsh thought away shall fly
Down the full stream of harmony,
Compassion mild shall fill their place,
Each gentle minister of grace;
Pity, that often melts to love,
Let weeping pity kind improve,
The soften'd heart, prepar'd to take
What'er impressions love shall make.
Oh! in that kind, that sacred hour,
When hate, when anger have no power;
When sighing love, mild simple boy,
Courtship sweet, and tender joy,
Alone possess the fair one's heart;
Let me then, fancy, bear my part.
Oh! Goddess how I long to appear ;
The hour of dear success draws near :
See where the crowding shadows wait;
Haste and unfold the iv'ry gate;
Ye gracious forms, employ your aid,
Come in my anxious look array’d;
Come love, come Hymen, at my pray'r,
Led by blythe hope, ye decent pair,
By mutual confidence combin'd,
As erst in sleep I saw you join'd.
Fill my eyes with heart-swelld tears,
Fill my breast with heart born fears,
Half-utter'd vows and half-suppress'd,
Part look'd, and only wish'd the rest;
Make sighs, and speaking sorrows prove,
Suffering much, how much I love;
Make the muses lyre complain,
Strung by me in warbled strain ;
Let the melodious nuinbers flow
Powerful of a lover's woe,
Till, by the tender Orphean art,
I through her ear shall gain her heart.

Now fancy, now the fit is o'er :
I feel my sorrows vex no more :
But when condemn'd again to mourn,
Fancy, to my aid return.

THE BRAES OF YARROW.

TO LADY JANE HOME.

IN IMITATION OF THB ANCIENT SCOTTISH MANNER.

A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bony bony bride,
Busk

ye,

busk ye, my winsome marrow ?
Busk
ye, busk

ye, my bony bony bride,
And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

B. Where gat ye that bony bony bride?

Where gat ye that winsome marrow ?
A. I gat her where I dare nae weil be seen,

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Weep not, weep not, my bony bony bride,

Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow,
Nor let thy heart lament to leive

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
B. Why does she weep my bony bony bride ?

Why does she weep thy winsome marrow?
And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow? A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she

weep, Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. For she has tint her luver luver dear,

Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow, And I hae slain the comeliest swain

That e'er pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow red?

Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon ineloncholeous weids

Hung on the bony birks of Yarrow.

What yonder floats on the rueful rueful fude?

What's yonder floats ? O dule and sorrow! "Tis he the comely swain I slew

Upon the duletul Braes of Yarrow.
Wash, O wash his wounds his wounds in tears,

His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow,
And wrap his limbs in mourning weids,

And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow. Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad,

Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, And weep around in waeful wise,

His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow. Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield,

My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast,

His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow. Did I not warn thee not to lue,

And warn from fight, but, to my sorrow, O'er rashly bald a stronger arm

Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow. Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the

grass,
Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan;
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.
Flows Yarrow sweet? as, as sweet flows Tweed,

As green its grass, its gowan yellow,
As sweet smells on its braes the birk,

The apple frae the rock as mellow.
Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve,

In floury bands thou him didst fetter,
Though he was fair and weil belov'd again,

Than me he never lued thee better. Busk ye, then busk, my bony bony bride,

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and lue me on the banks of Tweed,

And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

C. How can I busk a bony bony bride,

How can I busk a winsome marrow, How lue him on the banks of Tweed,

That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow. O Yarrow fields, may never never rain,

No dew thy tender blossoms cover,
For there was basely slain my luve,

My luve, as he had not been a lover.
The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,

His purple vest, 'twas my awn seuing,
Ah! wretched me! I little little ken'd

He was in these to meet his ruin. The boy took out his milk-white milk-white steed,

Unheedful of my dule and sorrow, But e'er the toofal of the night

He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. Much I rejoic'd that waeful, waeful day;

I sang, my voice the woods returning, But lang e'er 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 luver'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 scoffin, May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes

My luver nailed in his coffin. My brother Douglas may upbraid,

And strive with threatning words to muve me, My luver's blood is on thy spear,

How canst thou ever bid me luve 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 bath'd 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,

O lay his cold head on my pillow; Take aff take aff these bridal weids,

And crown my careful head with willow. Pale tho' thou art, yet best yet best beluv'd,

O could my warmth to life restore thee, Yet lie all night between my briests,

No youth lay ever there before thee. Pale pale indeed, O lovely lovely youth,

Forgive forgive so foul a slaughter, And lye all night between my briests,

No youth shall ever lye there after. A. Return, return, O mournful mournful bride,

Return and dry thy useless sorrow, Thy luver heeds nought of thy sighs,

He lyes a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.