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For swelling waves, our panting breasts,

Where never storms arise, Exchange, and be awhile our guests ;

For stars gaze on our eyes ; The compass Love shall hourly sing, And, as he goes about the ring,

We will not miss

To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. Then come on shore, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

What, were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,

And so to bid good-night?
'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,

And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where we

May read how soon things have

Their end, though ne'er so brave: And after they have shown their pride, Like you, awhile, they glide

Into the grave.



DISDAIN RETURNED. He that loves a rosy cheek,

Or a coral lip admires, Or froni star-like eyes doth seek

Fuel to maintain his fires, As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away.


But a smooth and stedfast mind,

Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, Hearts with equal love combin’d,

Kindle never-dying fires. Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the fiights of eagles are;
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew;
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood:
Ev'n such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night.
The winds blow out, the bubble dies;
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot;
The flight is past—and man forgot.



Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose;
For, in your beauty's orient deep
These flowers, as in their causes, slcep.
Ask me no more whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For, in pure love, Heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.
Ask me no more where those stars light
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become as in their sphere.

THE ANGLER'S WISII. I in these flowery meads would be: These crystal streams should solace me, To whose harmonious bubbling noise I with my angle would rejoice; Sit here and see the turtle dove Court his chaste mate to acts of love:

Or on that bank feel the west wind
Breathe health and plenty: please my mind
To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers,
And then wash'd off by April showers;
Here hear my Kenna sing a song,
There see a blackbird feed her young,

Ask me no more if east or west
The Phænix builds her spicy nest:
For unto you at last she fies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.

Or a leverock build her nest:
Here give my weary spirits rest,
And raise my low-pitch'd thoughts above
Earth, or what poor mortals love;
Or, with my Bryan and my book,
Loiter long days near Shawford brook:



Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile, To blush and gently smile,

And go at last.

There sit by him and eat my meat,
There see the sun both rise and set,
There bid good morning to next day;
There meditate my time away,
And angle on, and beg to have
A quiet passage to my grave.

Did I not warn thee not to lue,

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

Thou met’st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow.

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the

Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan, (grass, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

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 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,

Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, For there was basely slain my luve,

My luve, as he had not been a luver.

The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,

His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewing, Ah! wretched me! I little little ken'd

He was in these to meet his ruin.



(HAMILTON.) A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bony bony bride,

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow! Busk 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 na 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, thy 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

Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, (weep, 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 melancholious weids

Hung on the bony birks of Yarrow ?
What yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude ?

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

Upon the duleful 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.

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

Unheedful of my dule and sorrow, But e'er the to-fall 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 scoflin,


May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes

My luver nailed in his coffin.

My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid,

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

How canst thou ever hid me luve thee?

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !

It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. When he began to court my luve, And with his sugred words to muve, His faynings fals, and flattering cheire, To me that time did not appeire: But now I see, most cruel, hee Cares neither for my babe nor mee.

Balow, &c.

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 luver.
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 ?

Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe a while,
And when thou wakest sweitly smile;
But smile not, as thy father did,
To cozen maids; nay, God forbid !
But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire,
Thy fatheris hart and face to beire.

Balow, &c.

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 ! Ye'd 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 lie 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.

I canna chuse, but ever will
Be luving to thy father stil:
Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde,
My love with him maun stil abyde:
In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae,
Mine hart can neir depart him frae,

Balow, &c.
But doe not, doe not, prettie mine,
To faynings fals thine hart incline:
Be loyal to thy luver trew,
And nevir change hir for a new:
If gude or faire, of hir have care,
For womens banning's wonderous sair.

Balow, &c.


Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane,
Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine ;
My babe and I'll together live,
He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve:
My babe and I right saft will ly,
And quite forget man's cruelty.

Balow, &c.
Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth,
That ever kist a woman's mouth!
I wish all maids be warn'd by mee,
Never to trust man's curtesy ;
For if we doe but chance to bow,
They'll use us then they care not how.

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.


Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe !
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe;
If thoust be silent, Ise be glad,
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.
Balow, my boy, thy mithers joy,
Thy father breides me great annoy.




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