Soon as the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear:
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flow'rs,
When heav'n is fill'd with music sweet
Of birds among the bow'rs.

The schoolboy wand'ring in the wood
To pull the flow'rs so gay,
Starts, thy curious voice to hear,
And imitates thy lay.

Soon as the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fly'st thy vocal vale,
An annual guest, in other lands,
Another Spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bow'r is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year!

Alas! sweet bird! not so my fate,

Dark scowling skies I see

Fast gathering round, and fraught with woe And wintry years to me.

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee:
We'd make, with social wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the Spring.

340

GEORGE HALKET [d. 1756(?)]

LOGIE O' BUCHAN

O LOGIE O' Buchan, O Logie the laird,

They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, that delved in the yaird,
Wha played on the pipe and the viol sae sma',
They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, the flower o' them a'!

He said, 'Think na lang, lassie, though I gang awa'!'
He said, Think na lang, lassie, though I gang awa'!'
For simmer is coming, cauld winter's awa',

And I'll come and see thee in spite o' them a'!'

Though Sandy has ousen, has gear, and has kye,
A house and a hadden, and siller forbye;
Yet I'd tak' mine ain lad, wi' his staff in his hand,
Before I'd ha’e him, wi' the houses and land.

My daddy looks sulky, my minnie looks sour;
They frown upon Jamie because he is poor;
Though I lo'e them as weel as a dochter should do,
They're nae hauf sae dear to me, Jamie, as you.

I sit on my creepie, I spin at my wheel,
And think on the laddie that lo'ed me sae weel:
He had but a sixpence, he brak' it in twa,
And gi'ed me the hauf o't when he gaed awa'.

Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa'!
Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa'!
The simmer is coming, cauld winter's awa',
And ye'll come and see me in spite o' them a'.

WILLIAM HAMILTON OF BANGOUR

[1704-1754]

THE BRAES OF YARROW

341

'BUSK ye, busk

ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride!
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow!
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie, bonnie bride!
And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow!'

'Where got ye that bonnie, bonnie bride?
Where got ye that winsome marrow?'
'I got her where I durst not well be seen-
Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.'

'Weep not, weep not, my bonnie, bonnie bride!
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow!
Nor let thy heart lament to leave

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.'

'Why does she weep, thy bonnie, bonnie bride?
Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow?

And why dare ye nae mair weel be seen

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow?'

'Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow;

And lang maun I nae weel be seen

Pu'ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.

'For she has tint her lover, lover dear—
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow;
And I have slain the comeliest swain

That ever pu'ed birks on the braes of Yarrow.

'Why runs thy stream O Yarrow, Yarrow, reid?
Why on thy braes is heard the voice of sorrow?
And why yon melancholious weeds

Hung on the bonnie birks of Yarrow.

'What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flood?
What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow!
'Tis he, the comely swain I slew

Upon the duleful braes of Yarrow.

'Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,
His wounds in tears of dule and sorrow;
And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,
And lay him on the braes of Yarrow.

'Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow:
And weep around, in woeful wise,

His hapless fate on the braes of Yarrow.

'Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield,
My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierced his breast-
His comely breast on the braes of Yarrow!

'Did I not warn thee not to, not to love,

And warn from fight? But, to my sorrow,

Too rashly bold, a stronger arm

Thou met'st, and fell on the braes of Yarrow.'

'Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the

grass,

Yellow on Yarrow's braes the gowan;

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowing!'

'Flows Yarrow sweet? As sweet, as sweet flows Tweed; As green its grass, its gowan as yellow;

As sweet smells on its braes the birk,

The apple from its rocks as mellow.

'Fair was thy love, fair, fair indeed thy love;
In flowery bands thou didst him fetter:
Though he was fair, and well beloved again
Than me, he never loved thee better.

'Busk ye then, busk, my bonnie, bonnie bride!
Busk, ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow!
Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed,
And think nae mair on the braes of Yarrow!'

'How can I busk, a bonnie, bonnie bride? How can I busk, a winsome marrow? How lo'e him on the banks of Tweed

That slew my love on the braes of Yarrow!

'O Yarrow fields, may never, never rain Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover! For there was basely slain my love—

My love as he had not been a lover.

'The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,
His purple vest-'twas my ain sewing:

Ah, wretched me! I little, little knew
He was in these to meet his ruin!

'The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, Unheedful of my dule and sorrow;

But ere the to-fall of the night

He lay a corpse on the braes of Yarrow.

'Much I rejoiced, that woeful, woeful day;
I sang, my voice the woods returning;
But lang ere night the spear was flown
That slew my love and left me mourning.

'What can my barbarous, barbarous father do, But with his cruel rage pursue me?

My lover's blood is on thy spear;

How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?

'My happy sisters may be, may be proudWith cruel and ungentle scoffin'

May bid me seek, on Yarrow's braes,

My lover nailed in his coffin.