"Brither Chayrlye, I've made ye a Laird the nychte,

An' I maunna be here the morn,

My blade is barken't wi' Herbert's blude,

An' he lyes at Hurkell Burn."

He muntyt his meare i' the fayre muinlychte,

An' he pryckit her ower the greene,

An' never agayne in Annandale

Was blythe Hughe Herryes seene.

There wer' some folke sayde that his wynsome corse

I' the fathomless sea was sunke;

Some sayde he was slain i' the German wars—
An' some that he deet a monke.

Quhan Chayrlye Herryes had ca't his men,

I' dool but an' i' frychte;

He boun't him awaye to Hurkell Burne,

An' saw ane awsome sychte.

For there the chief o' his ancient house
In waefu' plychte did lye,

Wi' his heid on the banke, his feet i' the burne,
An' his face to the sternye sky.

Ane hastye batte wrochte ane unco change,
Young Chayrlye noo was Laird,

An' Herbert layde i' the Herryeses' aisle,
I' Dry'esdale auld Kirk-yairde.

But fearfu' sychtes hae been seen sinsyne,
An' monye a late-gaune wychte
Quhan stayverin' hame by Hurkell Burne,
Has gotten a lyfe-lang frychte.

A voice ilk year as that nychte comes roun'
Yells a' the plantins throo-

"There never was Herryes that dreet a strake,

But he garr't the smyter rue."

An' what has been seen I downa telle,

But this I ken fu' weel

That rayther nor cross that burn at e'en.
There's monye wad face the 'deil.

An' ance quhan I was a smayke at the schule,
I was late on Lockerbye Hill,

An' sure o' a weel-earn't flyte at hame,
I gaed wi' lyttle gude will;

But thynking on monye a fayre excuse,
Just anger awaye to turne,

I'd got a rychte feasible storye framet,
As I loupit owre Hurkell Burne.

Quhan something rase wi' ane eldrytch skraich,
An' a deevilish dynne it made,

As doon the burne whyrre ! whyrre ! whyrroo !

Lyke a flaughte o' fyre it gaed.

My hayre lyftit up my cap frae my heid

Cauld sweite ran owre my bree,

The strengthe was reft frae my trummelling limbs, An' I cower't upo' my knee.

'Twas ane horryble thochte to foregaither wi' ghaists, Quhan I'd just been coyning a lee.

But awaye belyve like a troute frae a gedde,

Or a maukin frae yammerin' tykes,

I fledde nor styntit to breathe or look back,
Quhyle I wan to the bonnie Ha' Dykes

My tale was tauld. They leuche, an' quo' they,

"A frychtit pheasant springs

[doon

Wi' a skraich an' a whyrre ;"-but I threepit them
That I kenn't it was nae sic things,

For nochte could pit me i' sic mortal dreide
That flees wi' mortal wings.

The girse grows green about bonnie Ha' Dykes,
On meadow, brae and lea;

The corn waves wyde on its weel wrochte rygges,
An' its woods are fayre to see.

Its auld Ha' house 'mang the chestnut trees
In stately beauty stan's;

But I wadna 'gaen back by the burne that nychte
For Ha' Dykes an' a' its lan's.

BANKS OF MARRON,

CUMBERLAND.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH,

"Sole king of rocky Cumberland."

BORN AT COCKERMOUTH 1770:
DIED AT RYDAL MOUNT 1850.

TO THE CUCKOO.

BLITHE New-comer! I have heard,

I hear thee and rejoice.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,

Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass

Thy twofold shout I hear,

From hill to hill it seems to pass,

At once far off, and near.

Though babbling only to the Vale,

Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that Cry

Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove

Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet;

Can lie upon the plain

And listen, till I do beget

That golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace

Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, faery place;

That is fit home for Thee!

IT IS THE FIRST MILD DAY OF MARCH.

It is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before

The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.