'Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,
Each maiden to her dwelling!

On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow;
But we will downward with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

'There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, Both lying right before us;

And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus;

There's pleasant Teviotdale, a land
Made blythe with plough and harrow:
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?

'What's Yarrow but a river bare

That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere

As worthy of your wonder.'

-Strange words they seem'd of slight and

scorn;

My true-love sigh'd for sorrow,

And look'd me in the face, to think

I thus could speak of Yarrow!

'O green,' said I, 'are Yarrow's holms.

And sweet is Yarrow flowing!

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
But we will leave it growing.

O'er hilly path and open strath
We'll wander Scotland thorough;

But, though so near, we will not turn

Into the dale of Yarrow.

'Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake

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Float double, swan and shadow!
We will not see them; will not go
To-day, nor yet to-morrow;

Enough if in our hearts we know
There's such a place as Yarrow.

'Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown; It must, or we shall rue it:

We have a vision of our own,

Ah! why should we undo it?

The treasured dreams of times long past,
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
'Twill be another Yarrow!

'If care with freezing years should come
And wandering seem but folly,—
Should we be loth to stir from home,

And yet be melancholy;

Should life be dull, and spirits low,

'Twill soothe us in our sorrow

That earth has something yet to show,

The bonny Holms of Yarrow!'

YARROW VISITED

[September, 1814]

AND is this-Yarrow?-This the stream
Of which my fancy cherish'd

So faithfully, a waking dream,

An image that hath perish'd?

O that some minstrel's harp were near
To utter notes of gladness

And chase this silence from the air,
That fills my heart with sadness.

Yet why? a silvery current flows
With uncontroll'd meanderings;
Nor have these eyes by greener hills

Been soothed, in all my wanderings.

And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake

Is visibly delighted;

For not a feature of those hills

Is in the mirror slighted.

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale,
Save where that pearly whiteness
Is round the rising sun diffused,
A tender hazy brightness;

Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
All profitless dejection;

Though not unwilling here to admit
A pensive recollection.

Where was it that the famous Flower

Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?

His bed perchance was yon smooth mound On which the herd is feeding:

And haply from this crystal pool

Now peaceful as the morning,

The water-Wraith ascended thrice,
And gave his doleful warning.

Delicious is the Lay that sings

The haunts of happy lovers,

The path that leads them to the grove,
The leafy grove that covers:

And pity sanctifies the verse

That paints, by strength of sorrow,

The unconquerable strength of love;

Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!

But thou that didst appear so fair

To fond imagination

Dost rival in the light of day

Her delicate creation:

Meek loveliness is round thee spread,

A softness still and holy:

The grace of forest charms decay'd,
And pastoral melancholy.

That region left, the vale unfolds
Rich groves of lofty stature,

With Yarrow winding through the pomp
Of cultivated Nature;

And rising from those lofty groves
Behold a ruin hoary,

The shatter'd front of Newark's Towers,
Renown'd in Border story.

Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom,
For sportive youth to stray in,

For manhood to enjoy his strength,
And age to wear away in!

Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,

A covert for protection

Of studious ease and generous cares
And every chaste affection!

How sweet on this autumnal day
The wild-wood fruits to gather,
And on my true-love's forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather!
And what if I enwreathed my own?
'Twere no offence to reason;

The sober hills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry season.

I see but not by sight alone,
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
A ray of Fancy still survives-
Her sunshine plays upon thee!
Thy ever-youthful waters keep
A course of lively pleasure;

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe.
Accordant to the measure.

The vapours linger round the heights,
They melt, and soon must vanish;
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine-
Sad thought! which I would banish,

But that I know, where'er I go,
Thy genuine image, Yarrow!

Will dwell with me, to heighten joy
And cheer my mind in sorrow.

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YARROW REVISITED

THE gallant Youth, who may have gained,

Or seeks, a 'winsome Marrow,'

Was but an Infant in the lap

When first I looked on Yarrow;
Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate
Long left without a warder,

I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee,
Great Minstrel of the Border!

Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day,

Their dignity installing

In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves
Were on the bough, or falling;

But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed-
The forest to embolden;

Reddened the fiery hues, and shot

Transparence through the golden.

For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on

In foamy agitation;

And slept in many a crystal pool
For quiet contemplation:
No public and no private care

The freeborn mind enthralling,

We made a day of happy hours,
Our happy days recalling.

Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of youth,
With freaks of graceful folly-

Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve,
Her Night not melancholy;