DIRGES AND PATHETIC POEMS. THE wanton troopers, riding by, Them any harm, alas! nor could And nothing may we use in vain; Even beasts must be with justice slain, Else men are made their deodands. Though they should wash their guilty hands In this warm life-blood which doth part From thine, and wound me to the heart, Yet could they not be clean, their stain Is dyed in such a purple grain. It is a wondrous thing how fleet For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod as if on the four winds. I have a garden of my own, Among the beds of lilies I Have sought it oft, where it should lie, Yet could not, till itself would rise, I was the Queen o' bonnie France, Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, As blythe lay down at e'en: And I'm the sov' reign of Scotland, And mony a traitor there; Yet here I lie in foreign bands, And never ending care. But as for thee, thou false woman, My sister and my fae, Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword That through thy soul shall gae: The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee; Nor the balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying e'e. My son! my son! may kinder stars That ne'er wad blink on mine! Remember him for me! Oh! soon, to me, may summer suns Bloom on my peaceful grave! THE BRAES OF YARROW. THY 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! Forever, now, O Yarrow stream! Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; For never on thy banks shall I Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow! Come away for Life and Thought Here no longer dwell; But in a city glorious, A great and distant city, have bought TENNYSON. LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN. YE scattered birds that faintly sing, The reliques of the vernal choir! Ye woods that shed on a' the winds The honors of the aged year! A few short months, and glad and gay, Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e; But nocht in all revolving time The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen; The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour has been; The mother may forget the child That smiles sae sweetly on her knee: But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, And a' that thou hast done for me! BURNS. Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, My wailing numbers! Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! Mourn, little harebells owre the lea; Ye stately foxgloves fair to see; Ye roses on your thorny tree, The first o' flowers. Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye grouse that crap the heather bud; Ye curlews calling through a clud; Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood! He's gane forever! Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great, In a' the tinsel trash o' state; Thou man of worth! And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth. BURNS. |