But we will downward with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

“There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, Both lying right before us;

And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed The lintwhites sing in chorus;

There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, 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,

That glides the dark hills under?

There are a thousand such elsewhere

As worthy of your wonder."

Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;

My True-love sigh'd for sorrow;

And look'd me in the face, to think

I thus could speak of Yarrow!

"Oh! green," said I,

66 are Yarrow's holms,

And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,1
But we will leave it growing.
O'er hilly path, and open Strath,

We'll wander Scotland thorough;

But, though so near, we will not turn

Into the dale of Yarrow.

"Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
The swan on still St. Mary's Lake
Float double, swan and shadow!

1 See Hamilton's Ballad as above.

We will not see them; will not go,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
Enough if in our hearts we know

There's such a place as Yarrow.

"Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
It must, or we shall rue it :
We have a vision of our own;

Ah! why should we undo it?

The treasured dreams of times long past,
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow !
For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
"Twill be another Yarrow !

"If Care with freezing years should come, And wandering seem but folly,

Should we be loath to stir from home,

And yet be melancholy;

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!"

WORDSWORTH.

L'

ADIEU.

ET time and chance combine, combine,
Let time and chance combine;

The fairest love from heaven above,

That love of yours was mine,
My dear,

That love of yours was mine.

The past is fled and gone, and gone,
The past is fled and gone;

If nought but pain to me remain,
I'll fare in memory on,

My dear,

I'll fare in memory on.

The saddest tears must fall, must fall,
The saddest tears must fall;

In weal or woe, in this world below,
I love you ever and all,

My dear,

I love you ever and all.

A long road full of pain, of pain,

A long road full of pain;

One soul, one heart, sworn ne'er to part,— We ne'er can meet again,

My dear,

We ne'er can meet again.

Hard fate will not allow, allow,

Hard fate will not allow ;

We blessed were as the angels are,

Adieu for ever now,

My dear,

Adieu for ever now.

T. CARLYLE.

E

TO A SKY-LARK.

I.

THEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?

Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still!

II.

To the last point of vision, and beyond,

Mount, daring warbler !—that love-prompted strain

("Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing All independent of the leafy spring.

III.

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;
A privacy of glorious light is thine;
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!
WORDSWORTH.

A

THE TWA CORBIES.1

S I was walking all alane,

I heard twa corbies making a mane;

The tane unto the t'ither did say,

"Whar sall we gang and dine the day?"

1 Corbies, ravens.

"In behint yon auld fail1 dyke,
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there
But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.

"His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady's ta'en anither mate,

Sae we may mak' our dinner sweet.

"Ye'll sit on his white 2hause-bane, And I'll pike out his bonny blue een; Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair

We'll theek3 our nest when it grows bare.

"Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken whar he is gane.
O'er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair."

SCOTT's Border Minstrelsy.

1

Ο

DIRGE FOR THE YEAR.

RPHAN hours, the Year is dead,
Come and sigh, come and weep!
Merry hours, smile instead,

For the Year is but asleep :
See, it smiles as it is sleeping,
Mocking your untimely weeping.

As an earthquake rocks a corse
In its coffin in the clay,

So white Winter, that rough nurse,
Rocks the dead-cold Year to-day.

3

Fail, turf, sod. 2 Hause, neck. Theek, thatch.