THE wanton troopers, riding by,
Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men! they cannot thrive
Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst
alive

Them any harm, alas! nor could
Thy death yet do them any good.
I'm sure I never wished them ill;
Nor do I for all this, nor will:
But, if my simple prayers may yet
Prevail with Heaven to forget
Thy murder, I will join my tears,
Rather than fail. But, O my fears!
It cannot die so. Heaven's King
Keeps register of every thing,

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.
There is not such another in
The world, to offer for their sin.

It is a wondrous thing how fleet
'Twas on those little silver feet;
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race;
And, when it had left me far away,
'Twould stay and run again and
stay;

For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod as if on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness,
And all the spring time of the year
It only loved to be there.

Among the beds of lilies I

Have sought it oft, where it should lie,

Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes;
For, in the flaxen lilies' shade,
It like a bank of lilies laid.
Upon the roses it would feed,
Until its lips e'en seemed to bleed,
And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip.
But all its chief delight was still
On roses thus itself to fill,

I was the Queen o' bonnie France,
Where happy I hae been,

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
Upon thy fortune shine;
And may those pleasures gild thy
reign,

That ne'er wad blink on mine!
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,
Or turn their hearts to thee;
And where thou meet'st thy moth-
er's friend,

Remember him for me!

Oh! soon, to me, may summer suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds
Wave o'er the yellow corn!
And in the narrow house o' death
Let winter round me rave;
And the next flowers that deck the
spring,

Bloom on my peaceful grave!
BURNS.

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
A mansion incorruptible.
Would they could have staid with
us!

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
Can gladness bring again to me.

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!
Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens!
Ye burnies, whimplin' down your
glens,
Wi' todlin' din,
Or foaming strang, wi' hasty stens,
Frae lin to lin!

Mourn, little harebells owre the lea;

Ye stately foxgloves fair to see;
Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie,
In scented bowers;

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;
But by thy honest turf I'll wait,

Thou man of worth! And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth. BURNS.