JANE ELLIOTT. [1781 - 1849.] LAMENT FOR FLODDEN. I'VE heard them lilting at our ewe-milking, Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' 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, Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae; Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away. 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 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie The Flowers of the Forest are weded away. 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, ROBERT TANNAHILL. [1774-1810.] THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE THE midges dance aboon the burn; The paitricks down the rushy holm Beneath the golden gloamin' sky The mavis mends her lay; The red breast pours his sweetest strains, Gaes jinking through the thorn. The roses fauld their silken leaves, Let others crowd the giddy court Of mirth and revelry, The simple joys that Nature yields THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER. LET us go, lassie, go, To the braes o' Balquhither, 'Mang the bonnie Highland heather; The prime of our land, are cauld in I will twine thee a bower the clay. We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe milking; Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning By the clear siller fountain, Wi' the flowers of the mountain; To the bower o' my dearie. The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede When the rude wintry win' away. Idly raves round our dwelling, The sun is not set, but is risen on high, Nor long in corruption his body shall lie; Then let not the tide of thy griefs overflow, Nor the music of heaven be discord below; Rather loud be the song, and triumphant the chord, Let us joy for the dead who have died in the Lord. Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament, Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent; But give to the living thy passion of tears, Who walk in this valley of sadness and fears; Who are pressed by the combat, in darkness are lost, By the tempest are beat, on the billows are tossed: O, weep not for those who shall sorrow no more, Whose warfare is ended, whose trial is o'er; Let the song be exalted, triumphant the chord, And rejoice for the dead who have died in the Lord. JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE. [1775-1841.] NIGHT AND DEATH. MYSTERIOUS night! when our first parent knew Thee from report Divine, and heard thy name, Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, This glorious canopy of light and blue? Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came, And lo creation widened in man's view. Go, call for the mourners, and raise the Who could have thought such darkness lament, Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent; But weep not for him who is gone to his rest, Nor mourn for the ransomed, nor wail for the blest. lay concealed And in blossomed vale and grove Every shepherd knelt to love. Then a rosy, dimpled cheek, But that time is gone and past, O, for the old true-love time, HENRY KIRKE WHITE. [1785-1806.] TO THE HERB ROSEMARY. Come, press my lips, and lie with me Beneath the lowly alder-tree, And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And not a care shall dare intrude, To break the marble solitude So peaceful and so deep. And hark! the wind-god, as he flies, Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine, It warns me to the lonely shrine, The cold turf altar of the dead; A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire! Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms, And cradled in the winds. Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory. In this low vale, the promise of the year, SWEET-SCENTED flower! who 'rt wont to Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, bloom On January's front severe, And o'er the wintry desert drear Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell Unnoticed and alone, |