Though he was fair, and well-beloved again, "Busk ye, then, busk, my bonnie, bonnie bride! “How can I busk a bonnie, bonnie bride? How can I busk a winsome marrow? "Oh 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, "The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, Unmindful of my dule and sorrow; But ere the too fa' of the night, He lay a corpse on the banks of Yarrow! "Much I rejoiced that waefu', waefu' day; "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 proud; With cruel and ungentle scoffing May bid me seek, on Yarrow braes, "My brother Douglas may upbraid, And strive, with threatening words, to move me; My lover's blood is on thy spear— How canst thou ever bid me love thee? "Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love! With bridal-sheets my body cover! Unbar, ye bridal-maids, the door! Let in the expected husband-lover! "But who the expected husband, husband is? Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after? "Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down; "Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved, Oh could my warmth to life restore thee! Yet lie all night within my arms— No youth lay ever there before thee! "Pale, pale indeed, O lovely, lovely youth! Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, And lie all night within my arms, No youth shall ever lie there after!" "Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride! Return, and dry thy useless sorrow! Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs; He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow." WILLIAM HAMILTON. The School-Mistress. AH me! full sorely is my heart forlorn, In every village mark'd with little spire, For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent. And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree Which Learning near her little dome did stowe So have I seen (who has not, may conceive) So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave, They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghast; May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste! Near to this dome is found a patch so green, The noises intermix'd, which thence resound, Do Learning's little tenement betray; Where sits the dame, disguis'd in look profound, And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around. Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, And fury uncontroll'd, and chastisement unkind. Few but have kenn'd, in semblance meet portray'd, The childish faces of old Eol's train; Libs, Notus, Auster: these in frowns array'd, How then would fare or Earth, or Sky, or Main, Were the stern god to give his slaves the rein? And were not she rebellious breasts to quell, And were not she her statutes to maintain, The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the cell, Where comely peace of mind, and decent order dwell. A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown; And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground. Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth, Or dame, the sole additions she did hear; Yet these she challeng'd, these she held right dear: Ne would esteem him act as mought behove, But there was eke a mind which did that title love. One ancient hen she took delight to feed, The plodding pattern of the busy dame; Which, ever and anon, impell'd by need, Into her school, begirt with chickens, came! Such favor did her past deportment claim: And, if Neglect had lavish'd on the ground Fragment of bread, she would collect the same, For well she knew, and quaintly could expound What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found. Herbs too she knew, and well of each could speak But herbs for use, and physic, not a few, |