A voice as of the cherub-choir Gales from blooming Eden bear, And distant warblings lessen on my ear That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me: with joy I see The different doom our fates assign: Be thine Despair and sceptred Care; He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. T. GRAY. 124. ODE WRITTEN IN MDCCXLVI. How sleep the Brave, who sink to rest By fairy hands their knell is rung, W. COLLINS. 125. LAMENT FOR CUlloden. The lovely lass o' Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, R. BURNS. 126. LAMENT FOR FLODDEN. I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking, But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning- At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae ; Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray; At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching— The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking: K 127. THE BRAES OF YARROW. Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream, He promised me a milk-white steed To squire me to his father's towers; He promised me a wedding-ring,- Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow! Sweet were his words when last we met; His mother from the window look'd The green-wood path to meet her brother; They only saw the cloud of night, They only heard the roar of Yarrow. No longer from thy window look- The tear shall never leave my cheek, -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. J. LOGAN. 128. WILLIE DROWNED IN YARROW. Down in yon garden sweet and gay I heard a fair maid sighing say "Willie's rare, and Willie's fair, "O gentle wind, that bloweth south, "O tell sweet Willie to come dour And hear the mavis singing, And see the birds on ilka bush And leaves around them hinging. "The lav'rock there, wi' her white breast "O Leader haughs are wide and braid And Yarrow haughs are bonny; There Willie hecht to marry me If e'er he married ony. |