265

THE TWA CORBIES

As I was walking all alane,

I heard twa corbies making a mane,
The tane unto the tither say :-
‘Where sall we gang and dine to-day ?’

—In behint yon auld fail dyke,
I wat there lies a new slain Knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.

'His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady's ta'en another mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.

'Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I'll pick out his bonnie blue een.
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair

We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.

'Mony a one for him maks mane,
But nane sall ken where he is gane!
O'er his white banes, where they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.’

Anonymous.

266

WILLIE DROWNED IN YARROW

Down in yon garden sweet and gay
Where bonnie grows the lily,
I heard a fair maid sighing say :—
'My wish be wi' sweet Willie !

'Willie's rare, and Willie's fair,
And Willie's wondrous bonny;
And Willie hecht to marry me,
Gin e'er he married ony.

'O gentle wind, that bloweth south
From where my Love repaireth,
Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth,
And tell me how he fareth!

'O, tell sweet Willie to come doun
Ánd hear the mavis singing,
And see the birds on ilka bush
And leaves around them hinging :

'The lav'rock there, wi' her white breast
And gentle throat sae narrow !
There's sport eneuch for gentlemen
On Leader haughs and Yarrow.

'O, Leader haughs are wide and braid,
And Yarrow haughs are bonny;

There Willie hecht to marry me,
If ere he married ony.

'But Willie's gone, whom I thought on,
And does not hear the weeping
Draws many a tear frae 's true love's e'e,
When other maids are sleeping.

'Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,
The night I'll mak' it narrow,
For a' the lee-lang winter night
I lie twined o' my marrow.

'O, came ye by yon water-side?
Pu'd you the rose or lily?

Or came you by yon meadow green,
Or saw you my sweet Willie?'

She sought him up, she sought him down,

She sought him braid and narrow;

Syne, in the cleaving of a crag,

She found him drown'd in Yarrow.

Anonymous.

267

O, FAIN WOULD I

O, FAIN Would I, before I die,
Bequeath to thee a legacy,

That thou may'st say, when I am gone,
None had my heart but thee alone!
Had I as many hearts as hairs,
As many lives as lovers' fears,
As many lives as years have hours,

They all and only should be yours!

Dearest, before you condescend
To entertain a bosom-friend,

Be sure you know your servant well
Before your liberty you sell:

For love's a fire in young and old,
'Tis sometimes hot and sometimes cold,
And now you know that, when they please,
They can be sick of love's disease.

Then wisely choose a friend that may

Last for an age, and not a day,

Who loves thee not for lip or eye,

But for thy mutual sympathy!

Let such a friend thy heart engage,
For he will comfort thee in age,

And kiss thy wrinkled, furrowed brow
With as much joy as I do now.

Anonymous.

268

THE RELAPSE

O, TURN away those cruel eyes,
The stars of my undoing;
Or death in such a bright disguise
May tempt a second wooing.

Punish their blind and impious pride,
Who dare contemn thy glory!

It was my fall that deified

Thy name, and sealed thy story.

Yet no new sufferings can prepare
A higher praise to crown thee:
Though my first death proclaim thee fair,
My second will unthrone thee.

Lovers will doubt thou canst entice
No other for thy fuel,

And if thou burn one victim twice,
Both think thee poor and cruel.

Thomas Stanley.

269

A SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY

FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony
This universal frame began:

When Nature underneath a heap

Of jarring atoms lay,

And could not heave her head,

The tuneful voice was heard from high :-
'Arise, ye more than dead!'

Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
In order to their stations leap,

And music's power obey.

From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began:

From harmony to harmony

Through all the compass of the notes it ran,

The diapason closing full in man.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

When Jubal struck the chorded shell,

His listening brethren stood around,

And, wond'ring, on their faces fell

To worship that celestial sound.

Less than a God they thought there could not dwell
Within the hollow of that shell,

That spoke so sweetly and so well.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

The trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms,

With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms.

The double double double beat

Of the thundering drum

Cries:-'Hark! the foes come !

Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat.'

The soft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs, and desperation,
Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains, and height of passion
For the fair, disdainful dame.

But, O! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach,
The sacred organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,

Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above!

Orpheus could lead the savage race,
And trees uprooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre.

But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder higher,
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
And angels heard, and straight appear'd,
Mistaking Earth for Heaven.

Grand Chorus.

As from the power of sacred lays,
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the bless'd above:

So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And music shall untune the sky.

John Dryden.

270

FAIR, SWEET, AND YOUNG

FAIR, Sweet, and young, receive a prize
Reserv'd for your victorious eyes:
From crowds, whom at your feet you see,
O, pity and distinguish me!
As I from thousand beauties more
Distinguish you, and only you adore.