In vain do I praise thee, or strive to reveal
(Too nice for expression) what only we feel:
In a' that ye do, in each look and each mien,
The Graces in waiting adorn you unseen.
When I see you, I love you; when hearing, adore
I wonder and think you a woman no more:
Till, mad wi' admiring, I canna contain,
And kissing your lips, you turn woman again.

With thee in my bosom, how can I despair?
I'll gaze on thy beauties, and look awa' care;
I'll ask thy advice, when with troubles opprest,
Which never displeases, but always is best.
In all that I write I'll thy judgment require;
Thy wit shall correct what thy charms did inspire.
I'll kiss thee and press thee till youth is all o'er,
And then live in friendship when passion's no more.

LASS, GIN YE LO'E ME.

JAMES TYTLER. Born 1747, died 1805.

I HAE laid a herring in saut-
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;
I hae brew'd a forpit o' maut,

An' I canna come ilka day to woo.
I hae a calf that will soon be a cow-
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;
I hae a stook, and I'll soon hae a mowe,
An' I canna come ilka day to woo.

I hae a house upon yon moor-
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;
Three

sparrows may dance upon the moor,
An' I canna come ilka day to woo.
I hae a but and I hae a ben-

Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;
A penny to keep and a penny to spen',
An' I canna come ilka day to woo.

I hae a hen wi' a happitie leg-
Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;
That ilka day lays me an egg,

An' I canna come ilka day to woo.
I hae a cheese upon my shelf-

Lass, gin ye lo'e me, tell me now;
An' soon wi' mites 'twill rin itself,

An' I canna come ilka day to woo.

The following, which is another version of the above, appeared in Herd's Collection, 1776

I hae a herrin' in saut

Bonnie lassie, gin ye'll tak' me, tell me now;

An' I hae brewn three pickles o' maut,

An' I canna come ilka day to woo

To woo, to woo, to lilt and to woo;
An' I canna come ilka day to woo.

I hae a wee calf that wad fain be a cow

Bonnie lassie, gin ye'll tak' me, tell me now;
I hae a wee gryce that wad fain be a sow,

An' I canna come ilka day to woo

To woo, to woo, to lilt and to woo;
An' I canna come ilka day to woo.

WHILE FREQUENT ON TWEED.
REV. JOHN LOGAN, born 1748, died 1788.

WHILE frequent on Tweed and on Tay,

Their harps all the Muses have strung,
Should a river more limpid than they,
The wood-fringed Esk, flow unsung?
While Nelly and Nancy inspire

The poet with pastoral strains:
Why silent the voice of the lyre

On Mary, the pride of the plains?

Oh, nature's most beautiful bloom
May flourish unseen and unknown;
And the shadows of solitude gloom

A form that might shine on a throne.
Through the wilderness blossoms the rose,
In sweetness retired from the sight;
And Philomel warbles her woes
Alone to the ear of the night.

How often the beauty is hid

Amid shades that her triumphs deny ! How often the hero forbid

From the path that conducts to the sky! A Helen has pined in the grove, A Homer has wanted his name, Unseen in the circle of love,

Unknown to the temple of fame.

Yet let us walk forth to the stream,
Where poet ne'er wander'd before;
Enamour'd of Mary's sweet name,

How the echoes will spread to the shore! If the voice of the Muse be divine,

Thy beauties shall live in my lay;
While reflecting the forest so fine,
Sweet Esk o'er the valleys shall stray.

THE BRAES OF YARROW.

REV. JOHN LOGAN.

THY braes were bonnie, Yarrow stream,
When first on them I met my lover;
Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream,
When now thy waves his body cover!
For ever, now, O Yarrow stream!

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow;

For ever on thy banks shall I

Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow!

He promised me a milk-white steed,
To bear me to his father's bowers;

He promised me a little page,

To squire me to his father's towers;

He promised me a wedding-ring

The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow:

Now he is wedded to his grave,

Alas, his watery grave in Yarrow!

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 ascend;

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."

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.

FIRST VERSION.

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.