As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,

When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch skreech and hollow.

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin !
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin !
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
Kate soon will be a wofu' woman!
Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane of the brig;
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie pressed,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle-
Ae spring brought off her master hale
But left behind her ain gray tail :
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son, tak heed:
Whene'er to drink you are inclined,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear,—
Remember Tam O'Shanter's mare.

ROBERT BURNS.

Yarrow.

I. YARROW UNVISITED.

ROM Stirling castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;

Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my "winsome marrow:"

Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, And see the braes of Yarrow."

"Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow; 'tis their own-
Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!

But we will downward with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,

Both lying right before us;

And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed

The lintwhites sing in chorus ;

There's pleasant Teviot-dale, a land

Made blithe with plough and harrow :

Why throw away a needful day

To go in search of Yarrow?

What's Yarrow but a river bare,

That glides the dark hills under ?

There are a thousand such elsewhere,

As worthy of your wonder."

Strange words they seemed, of slight and scorn ;

My true-love sighed for sorrow,

And looked me in the face to think

I thus could speak of Yarrow !

"O, green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms,
And sweet is Yarrow flowing!

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
But we will leave it growing.
O'er hilly path, and open Strath,
We'll wander Scotland thorough ;

But, though so near, we will not tur
Into the dale of Yarrow.

"Let beeves and homebred kine partake
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
The swan on still St. Mary's Lake
Float double, swan and shadow !
We will not see them; will not go
To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
Enough, if in our hearts we know
There's such a place as Yarrow.

"Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!

It must, or we shall rue it :

We have a vision of our own;

Ah! why should we undo it?

The treasured dreams of times long past,
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow !
For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
'Twill be another Yarrow !

"If care with freezing years should come, And wandering seem but folly,

Should we be loath to stir from home,
And yet be melancholy,-

Should life be dull, and spirits low, "Twill soothe us in our sorrow,

That earth has something yet to show

The bonny holms of Yarrow !"

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

II. YARROW VISITED.

AND is this-Yarrow ?-This the stream
Of which my fancy cherished,

So faithfully, a waking dream?

An image that hath perished!

O that some minstrel's harp were near,
To utter notes of gladness,

And chase this silence from the air,
That fills my heart with sadness !

Yet why?—a silvery current flows
With uncontrolled meanderings ;
Nor have these eyes by greener hills
Been soothed, in all my wanderings.

And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake
Is visibly delighted ;

For not a feature of those hills

Is in the mirror slighted.

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale,
Save where that pearly whiteness
Is round the rising sun diffused—
A tender, hazy brightness;

Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
All profitless dejection ;

Though not unwilling here to admit
A pensive recollection.

Where was it that the famous Flower

Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?

His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
On which the herd is feeding;

And haply from this crystal pool,
Now peaceful as the morning,
The water-wraith ascended thrice,
And gave his doleful warning.

Delicious is the lay that sings
The haunts of happy lovers-
The path that leads them to the grove,
The leafy grove that covers :

And pity sanctifies the verse

That paints, by strength of sorrow,

The unconquerable strength of love :

Bear witness, rueful Yarrow !

But thou, that didst appear so fair

To fond imagination,

Dost rival in the light of day

Her delicate creation.

Meek loveliness is round thee spread

A softness still and holy,

The grace of forest charms decayed,

And pastoral melancholy.

That region left, the vale unfolds

Rich groves of lofty stature,

With Yarrow winding through the pomp

Of cultivated nature;

And, rising from those lofty groves,

Behold a ruin hoary!

The shattered front of Newark's towers,

Renowned in border story.

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,

For sportive youth to stray in ;

For manhood to enjoy his strength,
And age to wear away in!