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A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,
Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow,
And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen
Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

For she has tint her lover lover dear,
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow,
And I hae slain the comliest swain

That e'er poued birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

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

Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow?

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

Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.

Wash, oh wash his wounds his wounds in tears,
His wounds in tears with 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 waeful wise,

His helpless 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 lue,

And warn from fight, but to my sorrow;

O'er rashly bauld 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 bank the gowan,

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

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 frae the rock as mellow.

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

Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
Busk ye, and lue me on the banks of Tweed,
And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

VOL. II.-X

C. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride,
How can I busk a winsome marrow,
How lue 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 kenned
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 e'er the to-fall of the night

He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

Much I rejoiced that waeful waeful 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 proud;

With cruel and ungentle scoffin,

May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes
My lover nailed in his coffin.

My brother Douglas may upbraid, 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?
His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter.
Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,

Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after?

Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down,
O lay his cold head on my pillow;
Take aff, take aff these bridal weeds,

And crown my careful head with willow.

Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved,
O could my warmth to life restore thee!

Ye'd lie all night between my breasts,
No youth lay ever there before thee.

Pale, pale, indeed, O lovely, lovely youth,
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,
And lie all night between my breasts,

No youth shall ever lie there after.

A. 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.

JOHN ARMSTRONG, another poet of this period of Scottish birth, and the friend of Thomson, Mallet, and other literary characters of the age, was born at Castleton, a pastoral parish in Roxburghshire, in 1709. He was graduated at the university of Edinburgh, after which he studied medicine, and took his doctor's degree, in 1732. Not being a successful practitioner in his native country, he repaired to London, and there soon became known by the publication of several fugitive poems, and some medical essays. His practice being very limited, he devoted much time to literary pursuits; and in 1744, appeared his Art of Preserving Health, a didactic poem in four books. This was soon followed by two other poems, Benevolence and Taste, and a volume of prose essays, of quality too indifferent to deserve any farther notice. In 1760, Armstrong was appointed physician to the English forces in Germany; and on the peace of 1763, he returned to London, and there resumed the practice of medicine, which he continued, though with very limited success, until his death, September the seventh, 1779.

Dr. Armstrong seems to have been an indolent and splenetic, but kindhearted man-shrewd, caustic, and careful, yet warmly attached to his friends. His portrait, in the 'Castle of Indolence,' is one of Thomson's hapiest efforts:

With him was sometimes joined in silent walk
(Profoundly silent, for they never spoke)
One shyer still, who quite detested talk;
Oft stung by spleen, at once away he broke
To groves of pine and o'ershadowing oak;
There, inly thrilled, he wandered all alone,
And on himself his pensive fury wroke,

Nor ever uttered word, save when first shone

The glittering star of eve-Thank Heaven, the day is done.'

Dr. Armstrong's style is stiff and labored, and his images are not unfrequently mere echoes of those of Thomson and other poets. The subject required the aid of ornament; for scientific rules are, as a general thing, unfavorable themes for poetry; and few men are ignorant of the true philosophy of life, however they may deviate from it in practice. That health is to be preserved by temperance, exercise, and cheerful recreation, is a truth familiar to all, from infancy. The following extract from the Art of Preserving Health,' is, certainly, the most energetic passage in the whole poem :

PESTILENCE OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY.

Ere yet the fell Plantagenets had spent
Their ancient rage at Bosworth's purple field;
While, for which tyrant England should receive,
Her legions in incestuous murders mixed,
And daily horrors; till the fates were drunk
With kindred blood by kindred hands profused:
Another plague of more gigantic arm

Arose, a monster never known before,
Reared from Cocytus its portentous head;
This rapid fury not, like other pests,
Pursued a gradual course, but in a day

Rushed as a storm o'er half the astonished isle,
And strewed with sudden carcases the land.

First through the shoulders, or whatever part
Was seized the first, a fervid vapour sprung;
With rash combustion thence, the quivering spark
Shot to the heart, and kindled all within;
And soon the surface caught the spreading fires.
Through all the yielding pores the melted blood
Gushed out in smoky sweats; but nought assuaged
The torrid heat within, nor aught relieved
The stomach's anguish. With incessant toil,
Desperate of ease, impatient of their pain,

They tossed from side to side. In vain the stream
Ran full and clear, they burnt, and thirsted still.
The restless arteries with rapid blood

Beat strong and frequent. Thick and pantingly

The breath was fetched, and with huge labourings heaved.
At last a heavy pain oppressed the head,

A wild delirium came: their weeping friends
Were strangers now, and this no home of theirs.
Harassed with toil on toil, the sinking powers
Lay prostrate and o'erthrown; a ponderous sleep
Wrapt all the senses up: they slept and died.
In some a gentle horror crept at first
O'er all the limbs; the sluices of the skin
Withheld their moisture, till by art provoked
The sweats o'erflowed, but in a clammy tide;
Now free and copious, now restrained and slow;
Of tinctures various, as the temperature

Had mixed the blood, and rank with fetid streams:

As if the pent up humours by delay

Were grown more fell, more putrid, and malign.

Here lay their hopes (though little hope remained),

With full effusion of perpetual sweats

To drive the venom out. And here the fates

Were kind, that long they lingered not in pain.
For, who survived the sun's diurnal race,

Rose from the dreary gates of hell redeemed;

Some the sixth hour oppressed, and some the third.

Of many thousands, few untainted 'scaped;
Of those infected, fewer 'scaped alive;

Of those who lived, some felt a second blow;
And whom the second spared, a third destroyed.
Frantic with fear, they sought by flight to shun
The fierce contagion. O'er the mournful land,
The infected city poured her hurrying swarms:
Roused by the flames that fired her seats around,
The infected country rushed into the town.
Some sad at home, and in the desert some
Abjured the fatal commerce of mankind.

In vain; where'er they fled, the fates pursued.
Others, with hopes more specious, crossed the main,
To seek protection in far distant skies;

But none they found. It seemed the general air,
From pole to pole, from Atlas to the east,
Was then at enmity with English blood;
For. but the race of England all were safe
In foreign climes; nor did this fury taste
The foreign blood which England then contained.
Where should they fly? The circumambient heaven
Involved them still, and every breeze was bane:
Where find relief? The salutary art

Was mute, and, startled at the new disease,

In fearful whispers hopeless omens gave.

To heaven, with suppliant rites they sent their prayers;
Heaven heard them not. Of every hope deprived,
Fatigued with vain resources, and subdued
With woes resistless, and enfeebling fear
Passive they sunk beneath the weighty blow.
Nothing but lamentable sounds were heard,
Nor aught was seen but ghastly views of death.
Infectious horror ran from face to face,
And pale despair. 'Twas all the business then
To tend the sick, and in their turns to die.
In heaps they fell; and oft the bed, they say,
The sickening, dying, and the dead contained.

Glover, the author of Leonidas, an epic poem, and Shenstone, whose Pastoral Ballad, in four parts, is one of the finest poems of that class in the language, next invite our attention.

RICHARD GLOVER was the son of a London merchant, and was born in that city, in 1712. He was educated at Cheam school, where his verses, on the memory of Newton, whose death had recently occurred, excited very great interest and attention. He was designed for mercantile pursuits, but marrying, in 1737, a lady of fortune, he changed his intention, entered parliament as member for Weymouth, and soon became distinguished for his spirit and independence. He was, from this period, more or less a popular leader, until his death, which occurred in 1785.

'Leonidas,' which was published in 1737, was soon followed by The Athenais, another epic, equally elaborate. These poems are both written in blank verse, and in the subject have reference to the memorable defence of

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