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How often the beauty is hid

Amid shades that her triumphs deny ! How often the hero forbid

From the path that conducts to the sky ! A Helen has pined in the grove,

A Homer has wanted his name, Unseen in the circle of love,

Unknown to the temple of fame.

Yet let us walk forth to the stream,

Where poet ne'er wander'd before ; Enamour'd of Mary's sweet name,

How the echos will spread to the shore ! If the voice of the Muse be divine,

Thy beauties shall live in my lay ; While reflecting the forest so fine,

Sweet Esk o'er the valleys shall stray.




Tuy braes were bonnie, Yarrow stream,

When first on them I met my lover; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream,

When now thy waves his body cover ! For ever, now, O Yarrow stream!

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For ever on thy banks shall I

Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow!

He promised me a milk-white steed,

To bear me to his father's bowers; He promised me a little page,

To squire me to his father's towers; He promised me a wedding-ring

The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow : Now he is wedded to his grave,

Alas, his watery grave in Yarrow !

Sweet were his words when last we met;

My passion I as freely told him :
Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought

That I should never more behold him.
Scarce was he

gone, I saw his ghost ;
It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow :
Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,

And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow.

His mother from the window look’d,

With all the longing of a mother;
His little sister weeping walk'd

The greenwood path to meet her brother:
They sought him east, they sought him west,

They sought him all the forest thorough ;
They only saw the cloud of night,

They only heard the roar of Yarrow.

No longer from thy window look;

Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!
No longer walk, thou lovely maid ;

Alas, thou hast no more a brother !
No longer seek him east or west,

No longer search the forest thorough ;
For wandering in the night so dark,

He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.

The tear shall never leave my cheek,

No other youth shall be my marrow;
I'll seek thy body in the stream,

And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.
The tear did never leave her cheek,

No other youth became her marrow;
She found his body in the stream,

And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.

This beautiful song was founded upon the well-known story made immortal in the ballads of Scotland, both old and new. There are several versions — the story being the same in each, but in none of them told so exquisitely as by Mr. William Hamilton of Bangour, in his ballad commencing, “ Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride!” and rendered still more famous than it formerly was by the fine poem of Wordsworth, “Yarrow Unvisited."



JANE Elliot, about the year 175C.

I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking,

Lasses a lilting before the dawn of day ;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning-

The Flowers of the Forest are a’wede away.

At bughts in the morning nae blythe lads are scorning,

The lassies are lonely and dowie and wae ;
Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,

Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away.

In hairst at the shearing nae youths now are jeering,

The bandsters are lyart and runkled and grey ;
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching-

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At e’en at the gloaming nae swankies are roaming

'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play ; But ilk ane sits dreary, lamenting her dearie

The Flowers of the Forest are a’wede away.

Dule and wae for the order sent our lads to the border !

The English for ance by guile won the day ;
The Flowers of the Forest that focht aye the foremost,

The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay.

We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking,

Women and bairns are heartless and wae ;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

The “ Flowers of the Forest” are the young men of the districts of Selkirkshire and Peebleshire, anciently known as “ The Forest.” The song is founded by the authoress upon an older composition of the same name, deploring the loss of the Scotch at Flodden Field, and of which all has been lost except two or three lines.



Mrs. COCKBURN, born about the year 1710, died 1794.

I've seen the smiling

Of fortune beguiling ;
I've felt all its favours, and found its decay :

Sweet was its blessing,

Kind its caressing ;
But now 'tis fled-fled far away.

I've seen the forest

Adorn'd the foremost
With flowers of the fairest, most pleasant and gay ;

Sae bonnie was their blooming,

Their scent the air perfuming ;
But now they are wither'd and weeded away.

I've seen the morning

With gold the hills adorning,
And loud tempest storming before the mid-day;

I've seen Tweed's silver streams
Shining in the


Grow drumly and dark as he row'd on his way.

O fickle Fortune,

Why this cruel sporting;
Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day?

Nae mair your smiles can cheer me,
Nae mair


frowns can fear me;
For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

This song is an imitation, but not a good one, of Miss Elliot's, and appeared originally in Herd's Collection in 1776.

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JOHN LOWE, born 1750, died about the year 1800.

The moon had climb'd the highest hill

Which rises o'er the source of Dee, And from the eastern summit shed

Her silver light on tower and tree, When Mary laid her down to sleep,

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea ; When soft and low a voice was heard,

Saying, “ Mary, weep no more for me!”

She from her pillow gently raised

Her head, to ask who there might be, And saw young Sandy shivering stand,

With visage pale and hollow ee; “O Mary dear, cold is my clay,

It lies beneath a stormy sea ;
Far, far from thee I sleep in death;

So, Mary, weep no more for me !

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