Sweet were his words when last we met;

My passion I as freely told him:
Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought

That I should never more behold him.
Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;

It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow :
Thrice did the water-wraith ascendo;

And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow.

His mother from the window look’d,

With all the longing of a mother;
His little sister weeping walk'd

The greenwood path to meet her brother:
They sought him east, they sought him west,

They sought him all the forest thorough ;
They only saw the cloud of night,

They only heard the roar of Yarrow.

No longer from thy window look ;

Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!
No longer walk, thou lovely maid;

Alas, thou hast no more a brother!
No longer seek him east or west,

No longer search the forest thorough ;
For wandering in the night so dark,

He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.


The tear shall never leave my cheek,

No other youth shall be my marrow;
I'll seek thy body in the stream,

And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.
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.

This beautiful song was founded upon the well-known story made immortal in the ballads of Scotland, both old and new. There are several versions—the story

being the same in each, but in none of them told so exquisitely as by Mr. William Hamilton of Bangour, in his ballad commencing, “Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride!” and rendered still more famous than it formerly was by the fine poem of Wordsworth, “Yarrow Unvisited.”

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JANE ELLIOT, about the year 1750.

I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking,

Lasses a lilting before the dawn of day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning--

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At bughts in the morning nae blythe lads are scorning,

The lassies are lonely and dowie and wae ;
Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,

Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away.

In hairst at the shearing nae youths now are jeering,

The bandsters are lyart and runkled and grey;
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching-

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At e'en at the gloaming nae swankies are roaming

'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play ; But ilk ane sits dreary, lamenting her dearie

The Flowers of the Forest are a’wede away.

Dule and wae for the order sent our lads to the border!

The English for ance by guile won the day;
The Flowers of the Forest that focht aye the foremost,

The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay.

We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking,

Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

The “Flowers of the Forest” were the young men of the districts of Selkirkshire and Peebleshire, anciently known as “The Forest." The song is founded by the authoress upon an older composition of the same name, deploring the loss of the Scotch at Flodden Field.



Mrs. COCKBURN, born about the year 1710, died 1794.

I've seen the smiling

Of fortune beguiling;
I've felt all its favours, and found its decay :

Sweet was its blessing,

Kind its caressing ;
But now 'tis fled-fled far away.

I've seen the forest

Adorn'd the foremost
With flowers of the fairest, inost pleasant and gay ;

Sae bonnie was their blooming,

Their scent the air perfuming;
But now they are wither'd and weeded a way.

I've seen the morning

With gold the hills adorning,
And loud tempest storming before the mid-day ;

I've seen Tweed's silver streams
Shining in the sunny

Grow drumly and dark as he row'd on his way:

O fickle Fortune,

Why this cruel sporting;
Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day?

Nae mair your smiles can cheer me,

Nae mair your frowns can fear me;
For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

This song is an imitation, but not a good one, of Miss Elliot's, and appear a originally in Herd's Collection in 1776.

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The moon had climb’d the highest hill

Which rises o’er the source of Dee, And from the eastern summit shed

Her silver light on tower and tree, When Mary laid her down to sleep,

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea ; When soft and low a voice was heard,

Saying, “ Mary, weep no more for me!"

She from her pillow gently raised

Her head, to ask who there might be, And saw young Sandy shivering stand,

With visage pale and hollow ee; “O) Mary dear, cold is my clay,

It lies beneath a stormy sea ;
Far, far from thee I sleep in death;

So, Mary, weep no more for me!

Three stormy nights and stormy days

We toss'd upon the raging main,
And long we strove our bark to save ;

But all our striving was in vain.
Even then, when horror chill'd my blood,

My heart was fill’d with love for thee:
The storm is past, and I at rest ;

So, Mary, weep no more for me!
O maiden dear, thyself prepare ;

We soon shall meet upon that shore
Where love is free from doubt and care,

And thou and I shall part no more !”
Loud crow'd the cock, the shadow fled,

No more of Sandy could she see ;
But soft the passing spirit said

“Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!"

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GEORGE HALKET, died 1756.

O LOGIE o’ Buchan, O Logie the laird !
They ha'e ta’en awa’ Jamie, that delved in the yard,
Wha play'd on the pipe and the viol sae sma’,
They ha’e ta’en awa’ Jamie, the flower o' them a'.
He said, Think na lang, lassie, though I gang awa’;

He said, Think na lang, lassie, though I gang awa’;
For simmer is coming, cauld winter's awa',

And I'll come back and see thee in spite of them a'.
Though Sandy has ousen, has gear, and has kye,
A house and a hadden, and siller forbye ;
Yet I'd tak' mine ain lad wi' his staff in his hand,
Before I'd ha'e him wi' the houses and land.

He said, Think na lang, &c.
My daddie looks sulky, my minnie looks sour,
'I hey frown upon Jamie because he is poor :
Though I lo'e them as weel as a daughter should do,

re na haef sae dear to me, Jamie, as you.
He said, Think na lang, &c.


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