Gaudy as the opening dawn, Lies a long and level lawn, On which a dark hill, steep and high, And see the rivers how they run, Ever charming, ever new, When will the landscape tire the view! See on the mountain's southern side, Content me with an humble shade, Now, ev'n now, my joys run high, Be full, ye courts; be great who will; Search for Peace with all your skill: Open wide the lofty door, Seek her on the marble floor. In vain you search, she is not there; And often, by the murmuring rill. John Dyer.-Born 1700, Died 1758. 881. THE BRAES OF YARROW. A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. B. Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride? Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride, Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow! Nor let thy heart lament to leave Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. B. Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride? Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen, Pouing 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, Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. For she has tint her lover lover dear, Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red? Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholious weeds Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow? What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude? What's yonder floats? O dule and sor row! 'Tis he, the comely swain I slew Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow. Wash, oh wash his wounds his wounds in tears, His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow, Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad, His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow. Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield, Did I not warn thee not to lue, And warn from fight, but to my sorrow; Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan, Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, Fair was thy love, fair fair indeed thy love, Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride, Yarrow. The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, 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 rejoiced that waeful waeful day; That slew my love, and left me mourning. What can my barbarous barbarous father do, How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me? My happy sisters may be may be proud; My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid, And strive with threatening words to move me, My lover's blood 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. But who the expected husband husband is? His hands, methinks, are bathed 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 weeds, And crown my careful head with willow. Pale though thou art, yet best yet best beloved, O could my warmth to life restore thee! Pale pale, indeed, O lovely lovely youth, Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, And lie all night between my breasts, No youth shall ever lie there after. Return, return, O mournful mournful bride, William Hamilton.-Born 1704, Died 1754. 882.-SONG. Ye shepherds of this pleasant vale, Where Yarrow streams along, Forsake your rural toils, and join In my triumphant song. She grants, she yields; one heavenly smile Atones her long delays, One happy minute crowns the pains Raise, raise the victor notes of joy, These suffering days are o'er; Love satiates now his boundless wish From beauty's boundless store : No doubtful hopes, no anxious fears, This rising calm destroy; Now every prospect smiles around, All op'ning into joy. The sun with double lustre shone That dear consenting hour,' Brighten'd each hill, and o'er each vale New colour'd every flower: The gales their gentle sighs withheld, The hills and dales no more resound The lambkin's tender cry; Without one murmur Yarrow stole In dimpling silence by : All nature scem'd in still repose That gently roll'd the tuneful wave, Take, take whate'er of bliss or joy You fondly fancy mine; Whate'er of joy or bliss I boast, Love renders wholly thine : The woods struck up to the soft gale, The hills and dales again resound Above, beneath, around, all on Was verdure, beauty, song; I snatch'd her to my trembling breast, All nature joy'd along. William Hamilton.-Born 1704, Died 1754. To breathe in distant fields a purer air; Or change the rocks of Scotland for the There none are swept by sudden fate away, But all, whom hunger spares, with age decay: Here malice, rapine, accident conspire, Of dissipated wealth the small remains, 1 1 On Thames's banks, in silent thought we stood, Where Greenwich smiles upon the silver flood: Struck with the seat that gave Eliza birth, We kneel, and kiss the consecrated earth; In pleasing dreams the blissful age renew, And call Britannia's glories back to view; Behold her cross triumphant on the main, The guard of commerce, and the dread of Spain, Ere masquerades debauch'd, excise oppress'd, Or English honour grew a standing jest. A transient calm the happy scenes bestow, And for a moment lull the sense of woe. At length awaking, with contemptuous frown, Indignant Thales eyes the neighbouring town: "Since worth," he cries, "in these degenerate days, Wants e'en the cheap reward of empty praise; In those cursed walls, devote to vice and gain, Since unrewarded science toils in vain; Since hope but soothes to double my distress, Where honesty and sense are no disgrace; Some pleasing bank where verdant osiers play, Some peaceful vale with Nature's painting gay; Where once the harass'd Briton found repose, has learn'd to live. Here let those reign whom pensions can incite A statesman's logic unconvinced can hear, 66 Others, with softer smiles and subtler art, Can sap the principles, or taint the heart; Well may they rise, while I, whose rustic tongue Ne'er knew to puzzle right, or varnish wrong, "For what but social guilt the friend endears? Who shares Orgilio's crimes, his fortunes shares. But thou, should tempting villany present spent, Turn from the glittering bribe thy scornful eye, Nor sell for gold what gold could never buy, The peaceful slumber, self-approving day, Unsullied fame, and conscience ever gay. "The cheated nation's happy favourites, see! Mark whom the great caress, who frown on me! London! the needy villain's general home, "Illustrious Edward! from the realms of day, The land of heroes and of saints survey! Behold the warrior dwindled to a beau; Of France the mimic, and of Spain the prey. Or like a gibbet better than a wheel; "Studious to please, and ready to submit, The supple Gaul was born a parasite: Still to his interest true, where'er he goes, Wit, bravery, worth, his lavish tongue bestows: In every face a thousand graces shine, "Besides, with justice, this discerning age Admires their wondrous talents for the stage: Well may they venture on the mimic's art, Who play from morn to night a borrow'd part : Practised their master's notions to embrace, To pour at will the counterfeited tear; Your taste in snuff, your judgment in a whore ; Can Balbo's eloquence applaud, and swear He gropes his breeches with a monarch's air! "For arts like these preferr'd, admired, caress'd, They first invade your table, then your breast; Explore your secrets with insidious art, Watch the weak hour, and ransack all the heart; Then soon your ill-placed confidence repay, All crimes are safe but hated poverty: With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze, For where can starving Merit find a home? In vain your mournful narrative disclose, While all neglect, and most insult your woes. "Should Heaven's just bolts Orgilio's wealth confound, And spread his flaming palace on the ground, dome; The price of boroughs and of souls restore, content, For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent; There mightst thou find some elegant retreat, Some hireling senator's deserted seat, And stretch thy prospects o'er the smiling land, For less than rent the dungeons of the Strand; There prune thy walks, support thy drooping flowers, Direct thy rivulets, and twine thy bowers: On all thy hours security shall smile, toil. "Prepare for death, if here at night you roam; And sign your will, before you sup from home. |