to Charles River, to cut off their retreat from the bridge." Then, turning on his side, he murmured, "Now, God be praised, I will die in peace!" and in a few moments his gallant soul had fled.

HIGHLAND MARY

ROBERT BURNS

NOTE TO THE PUPIL. - Robert Burns, the greatest Scotch poet, was born at Alloway, in 1759, and died at Dumfries in 1796. No other Scotch poet is so popular. You will do well to read "The Cotter's Saturday Night," "Tam o' Shanter," "To a Mountain Daisy," "To a Mouse," and "Twa Dogs." These will enable you to determine whether or not you wish to read Burns largely.

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 farewell
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 lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder:

But, oh, 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!

Oh, 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 moldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.

THE BANKS O' DOON

ROBERT BURNS

E banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,

YE

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair;

How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae weary, fu' o' care!

Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn:

Thou minds me o' departed joys,

Departed never to return!

Aft have I rov'd by bonnie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o' its luve,

And fondly sae did I o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart i' pu'd a rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree:
And my fause luver stole my rose,
But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON

ROBERT BURNS

FLOW gently, sweet Afton! Among thy green braes,

Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;

My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen;
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den;
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear;
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton! thy neighboring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,

My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow!
There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,

As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays!
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream;
Flow gently, sweet Afton! disturb not her dream.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY

ROBERT BURNS

WEE modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,

Thou's met me in an evil hour;

For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem:

To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
Wi' spreckl'd breast,

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north

Upon thy early, humble birth;

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;
But thou, beneath the random bield

Such is the fate of simple bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskillful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
By human pride or cunning driv'n

To mis'ry's brink,

Till wrenched of every stay but Heav'n, . He, ruin'd, sink!