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 decayed,
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 shattered front of Newark's Towers,
Renowned 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.


Sir Hugh; or, the Jew's Daughter

YESTERDAY was brave Hallowday,
And, above all days of the year,
The schoolboys all got leave to play,
And little Sir Hugh was there.

He kicked the ball with his foot,
And kepped it with his knee,
And even in at the Jew's window,
He gart the bonnie ba' flee.

Out then came the Jew's daughter-
'Will ye come in and dine?'
'I winna come in and I canna come in,
Till I get that ball of mine.

'Throw down that ball to me, maiden,
Throw down the ball to me.'

'I winna throw down your ball, Sir Hugh,
Till ye come up to me.'

She pu'd the apple frae the tree,
It was baith red and green,
She gave it unto little Sir Hugh,
With that his heart did win.

She wiled him into ae chamber,
She wiled him into twa,

She wiled him into the third chamber,
And that was warst o't a'.

She took out a little penknife,

Hung low down by her gair,

She twined this young thing o' his life,
And a word he ne'er spak mair.

And first came out the thick, thick blood,
And syne came out the thin,

And syne came out the bonnie heart's blood,
There was nae mair within.

She laid him on a dressing-table,

She dress'd him like a swine,

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Says, Lie ye there, my bonnie Sir Hugh,
Wi' ye're apples red and green.'


She put him in a case of lead,

Says, 'Lie ye there and sleep ;'
She threw him into the deep draw-well
Was fifty fathom deep.

A schoolboy walking in the garden,
Did grievously hear him moan,
He ran away to the deep draw-well
And on his knee fell down.

Says 'Bonnie Sir Hugh, and pretty Sir Hugh,
I pray you speak to me;

If you speak to any body in this world,
I pray you speak to me.'

When bells were rung and mass was sung,

And every body went hame,

Then every lady had her son,
But Lady Helen had nane.

She rolled her mantle her about,
And sore, sore did she weep;
She ran away to the Jew's castle
When all were fast asleep.

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She cries, Bonnie Sir Hugh, O pretty Sir Hugh, I pray you speak to me;

If you speak to any body in this world,

pray you speak to me.'

'Lady Helen, if ye want your son, I'll tell ye where to seek ;

Lady Helen, if ye want your son,

He's in the well sae deep.'

She ran away to the deep draw-well,
And she fell down on her knee;

Saying, 'Bonnie Sir Hugh, O pretty Sir Hugh,
I pray ye speak to me,

If ye speak to any body in the world,


pray ye speak to me.'

'Oh! the lead it is wondrous heavy, mother,

The well it is wondrous deep,

The little penknife sticks in my throat,

And I downa to ye speak.

But lift me out o' this deep draw-well,
And bury me in yon churchyard;
Put a Bible at my head,' he says,
'And a testament at my feet,
And pen and ink at every side,
And I'll lie still and sleep.

'And go to the back of Maitland town,
Bring me my winding-sheet;

For it's at the back of Maitland town
That you and I sall meet.'

O the broom, the bonny, bonny broom,
The broom that makes full sore;

A woman's mercy is very little,

But a man's mercy is more.

A Lyke-Wake Dirge

THIS ae nighte, this ae nighte,
Every nighte and alle,

Fire, and sleet, and candle lighte,
And Christe receive thye saule.


When thou from hence away art paste,

Every nighte and alle,

To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste,
And Christe receive thye saule.

If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,
Every nighte and alle,

Sit thee down and put them on,

And Christe receive thye saule.

If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gavest nane,

Every nighte and alle,

The whinnes sall pricke thee to the bare bane;

And Christe receive thye saule.

From Whinny-muir when thou mayst passe,

Every nighte and alle,

To Brigg o' Dread thou comest at laste,

And Christe receive thye saule.

From Brigg o' Dread when thou mayst passe,

Every nighte and alle,

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