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'Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, 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 love! fair, fair indeed thy love!
In flowery bands thou him didst fetter;
Though he was fair, and well-beloved again,
Than me he never loved thee better.

'Rusk ye, then, busk, my bonnie, bonnie bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow;
Busk ye, and l6'e me on the banks of Tweed,
And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow.'

C. 'How can I busk, a bonnie, bonnie bride?
How can I busk, a winsome marrow?
How lo'e him on the banks of Tweed,
That slew my Love on the braes of Yarrow?

'O 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, 'twas my ain sewin':
Ah, wretched me! I little, little knew,
He was in these to met his ruin.

'The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed,

Unhcedful of my dule and sorrow;

But, ere the toofal of the night,

He lay a corpse on the braes of Yarrow.

'Much I rejoiced that waeful, waeful 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's braes
My lover nailed in his coffin.

'My brother Douglas may upbraid,

And strive with threatening words to move me;

My lover's blude 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!'

Lady Anne Lindsay.

Born 1750. Died 1825.

Auld Robin Gray.

WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye come hame,
When a' the world to rest are gane,
The waes o' -my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
While my gudeman lies sound by me.

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;
But saving a crown, he had naething else beside.
To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea;
And the crown and the pound were baith for me.

He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,

When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa';

My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea,

And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.

My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin j
I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win;
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e,
Said, Jennie, for their sakes, oh marry me!

My heart it said nay; I looked for Jamie back;

But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;

His ship it was a wrack—why didna Jamie dee i

Or why do I live to cry, Wae 's me?

My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak;
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break:
They gi'cd him my hand, but my heart was at the sea;
Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.

l hadna been a wife a week but only four,
When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he—
Till he said, I 'm come hame to marry thee.

0 sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away:

l wish that I were dead, but I 'm no like to dee;
And why was I born to say, Wae's me!

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I 'll do my best a gude wife aye to be,
For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.

Lady Nairne.

Born 1766. Died 1845.

The Land O' The Leal.

"T'M wearin' awa', Jean,

.*. Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean,

I'm wearin' awa'

To the land o' the leal. There's nae sorrow there, Jean, There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, The day is aye fair

In the land o' the leal.

Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean,
She was baith gude and fair, Jean,
And oh! we grudged her sair

To the land o' the leal.
But sorrow's sel' wears past, Jean,
And joy's a-comin' fast, Jean,
The joy that's aye to last

In the land o' the leal.

Sae dear that joy was bought, Jean,
Sae free the battle fought, Jean,
That sinfu' man e'er brought

To the land o' the leal.
Oh! dry your glistening e'e, Jean,
My soul langs to be free, Jean,
And angels beckon me

To the land o' the leal.

Oh! haud ye leal and true, Jean,
Your day it's wearin' through, Jean,
And I 'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal.
Now fare-ye-weel, my ain Jean,
The world's cares are vain, Jean,
We 'll meet, and we 'll be fain

In the land o' the leal.

William Blake.

Born 1757. Died 1827.


HOW sweet I roamed from field to field,
And tasted all the summer's pride;
Till I the Prince of Love beheld,
Who in the sunny beams did glide.

He showed me lilies for my hair,
And blushing roses for my brow;
And led me through his gardens fair,
Where all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet May-dews my wings were wet,
And Phoebus fired my vocal rage;
He caught me in his silken net,
And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,
Then laughing sports and plays with mc,
Then stretches out my golden wing,
And mocks my loss of liberty.

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