'T

Avon, the River.

AVON BRAES

WAS June, 't was morn, and Brandon's deer
From Cadzow pastures brushed the dew;

The laverock lilted o'er the bere,

And through the woods shone white Mill Heugh; His feathered guile the fisher threw,

The cushie cooed his dearie's praise,
When forth I hied the flowers to view,
And spend an hour on Avon braes.

Nae weary, hopeless swain was I,
To languish in a sunny glade,
To aid the zephyr with a sigh,
And gie each flower a sombre shade.
Exulting through the woods I strayed,
Through mony a brier and rosy maze;
Or watched where shimmering ripples played
On Avon, lingering 'mang its braes.

I stood on cliffs with verdure fringed,
And far beneath me, spreading gay,

With blossomed broom and crawflowers tinged.
The summer-painted land

There Scotland's bearded symbol grew,
And there her gentler bell I saw;
And, oh! how fondly round them flew
The odor o' the blooming haw!
Suppressed my worldly yearnings a',
I only wished in measured praise
To sing the charms o' glade and shaw,
The linns and rills o' Avon braes.

O, were I lord o' Brandon's Ha',
And a' the charms o' yonder glen,
Nae stars wad woo me far awa',
To wair my golden thousands ten.
If wranged by rude unfeeling men,
The river's sang might soothe my waes;
And wha, a life o' joy to spend,

Need flee frae Avon's bonny braes?

David Wingate.

AVON,

THE AVON.

A FEEDER OF THE ANNAN.

a precious, an immortal name!

Yet is it one that other rivulets bear
Like this unheard of, and their channels wear
Like this contented, though unknown to fame:
For great and sacred is the modest claim

Of streams to Nature's love, where'er they flow;
And ne'er did Genius slight them, as they go,
Tree, flower, and green herb, feeding without blame.
But Praise can waste her voice on work of tears,

Anguish, and death: full oft, where innocent blood
Has mixed its current with the limpid flood,
Her heaven-offending trophies Glory rears:
Never for like distinction may the good

Shrink from thy name, pure rill, with unpleased ears.

William Wordsworth.

0

Awe, the River.

TO THE RIVER AWE.

STREAM, that flows from Awe's isle-studded lake, Whose heathery mountains high their summits rear, How rapid is thy current, and how clear!

And what sweet murmurings thy pure waters make, As if they were lamenting to forsake

Their granite urn, with precipices sheer

Begirt, from whose high peaks the antlered deer
Look down, and eagles the far echoes wake.
No sluggish streams their turbid tribute bring
To thy pure tide, and all in vain man tries
To stain thy bosom with impurities;
These thou with indignation off dost fling,
Reaching thy goal as pure as at thy source.

Ah, sparkling stream, that such were my own course!

James Cochrane.

Ayr, the River.

HIGHLAND MARY.

E banks and braes and streams around

YE

The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfauld her robes,

And there the langest tarry;

For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped her to my bosom !
The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder;

But, O, fell death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early!

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary!

O, pale, pale now,

those rosy lips,

I aft hae kissed sae fondly!

And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly;
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.

Robert Burns.

T

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

HOU lingering star, with lessening ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,

Again thou usherest in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary! dear, departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace!

Ah! little thought we 't was our last!

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green;