'T Avon, the River. AVON BRAES WAS June, 't was morn, and Brandon's deer 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, Nae weary, hopeless swain was I, I stood on cliffs with verdure fringed, With blossomed broom and crawflowers tinged. There Scotland's bearded symbol grew, O, were I lord o' Brandon's Ha', 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 Of streams to Nature's love, where'er they flow; Anguish, and death: full oft, where innocent blood 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 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 How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace 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 Robert Burns. T TO MARY IN HEAVEN. HOU lingering star, with lessening ray, 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; |