I saw her singing at her work, XX. WRITTEN IN MARCH, WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHER'S WATER. THE Cock is crowing, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest ; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one! The snow hath retreated, On the top of the bare hill; The plough-boy is whooping-anon-anon : There's joy in the mountains; There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone! XXI GIPSIES. YET are they here-the same unbroken knot Only their fires seems bolder, yielding light, Their bed of straw and blanket-walls. Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours, are gone while I Much witnessing of change and cheer Yet as I left I find them here! The weary sun betook himself to rest, The glorious path in which he trod. The stars have tasks-but these have none ! XXII BEGGARS. SHE had a tall man's height, or more; What other dress she had I could not know; In all my walks, through field or town, Fit person was she for a queen, To head those ancient Amazonian files: Or ruling bandit's wife, among the Grecian isles. Before me begging did she stand, Pouring out sorrows like a sea; Such woes I knew could never be; And yet a boon I gave her; for the creature Was beautiful to see; 66 a weed of glorious feature!" I left her, and pursued my way; Chasing a crimson butterfly; The taller followed with his hat in hand, Wreathed round with yellow flowers, the gayest of the land. The other wore a rimless crown, With leaves of laurel stuck about: And they both followed up and down, Each whooping with a merry shout: Two brothers seemed they, eight and ten years old; And like that woman's face as gold is like to gold. They bolted on me thus, and lo! Your mother has had alms of mine." "That cannot be," one answered, "she is dead." "Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread. "She has been dead, sir, many a day." "Sweet boys, you're telling me a lie; And in the twinkling of an eye, 66 Come, come!" cried one; and, without more ado, Off to some other play they both together flew. See the various poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the FROM Stirling Castle we had seen Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, "Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, Hares couch, and rabbits burrow! But we will downwards with the Tweed, There's Gala Water, Leader Haughs, Both lying right before us; And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed The lintwhites sing in chorus; There's pleasant Teviotdale, a land Made blithe with plough and harrow : Why throw away a needful day To go in search of Yarrow? What's Yarrow but a river bare, -Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn My true love sighed for sorrow; And looked me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow ! "Oh! green," said I, are Yarrow's holms, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,* Let beeves and home-bred kin partake Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! The treasured dreams of times long past, If care with freezing years should come, Should life be dull, and spirits low, "Twill soothe us in our sorrow That earth has something yet to show, The bonny holms of Yarrow !" XXIV. YARROW VISITED. SEPTEMBER, 1814. AND this is Yarrow ?-this the stream Of which my fancy cherished, So faithfully, a waking dream? An image that hath perished! *See Hamilton's ballad, as above. (269) O that some minstrel's harp were near, And chase this silence from the air, Yet why?-a silvery current flows And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted. A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale, Mild dawn of promise! that excludes Though not unwilling here t' admit Where was it that the famous flower His bed perchance was yon smooth mound Delicious is the lay that sings The path that leads them to the grove, 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 12 |