And are ye sure he’s weel?
Is this a time to think o’ wark?
Ye jades, lay by your wheel;
Is this the time to spin a thread, 5
When Colin’s at the door?
Reach down my cloak, I’ll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.
For there’s nae luck about the house,
There’s nae luck at a’; 10
There’s little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman’s awa’.
And gie to me my bigonet,
My bishop’s satin gown;
For I maun tell the baillie’s wife 15
That Colin’s in the town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
My stockins pearly blue;
It’s a’ to pleasure our gudeman,
For he’s baith leal and true. 20
Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;
Gie little Kate her button gown
And Jock his Sunday coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes, 25
Their hose as white as snaw;
It’s a’ to please my ain gudeman,
For he’s been long awa.
There’s twa fat hens upo’ the coop
Been fed this month and mair; 30
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;
And spread the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw,
For wha can tell how Colin fared 35
When he was far awa?
Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
His breath like caller air;
His very foot has music in’t
As he comes up the stair-- 40
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I’m downright dizzy wi’ the thought,
In troth I’m like to greet!
If Colin’s weel, and weel content, 45
I hae nae mair to crave:
And gin I live to keep him sae,
I’m blest aboon the lave:
And will I see his face again,
And will I hear him speak? 50
I’m downright dizzy wi’ the thought,
In troth I’m like to greet.
For there’s nae luck about the house,
There’s nae luck at a’;
There’s little pleasure in the house, 55
When our gudeman’s awa’.
_William Julius Mickle._
CLIV
_THE BANKS OF DOON._
Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fair!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu’ o’ care!
Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird 5
That sings upon the bough;
Thou minds me o’ the happy days
When my fause Luve was true.
Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings beside thy mate; 10
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o’ my fate.
Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o’ its love; 15
And sae did I o’ mine.
Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose,
Frae aff its thorny tree;
And my fause luver staw the rose,
But left the thorn wi’ me. 20
_Robert Burns._
CLV
_THE BRAES OF YARROW._
A. ‘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 of the braes of Yarrow.’
B. ‘Where gat ye that bonnie, bonnie bride, 5
Where gat ye that winsome marrow?’
A. ‘I gat her where I daurna weel 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, 10
Nor let thy heart lament to leave
Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.’
B. ‘Why does she weep, thy bonnie, bonnie bride?
Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow?
And why daur ye nae mair well be seen 15
Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow?’
A. ‘Lang maun she weep, lang lang maun she weep,
Lang maun she weep wi’ dule and sorrow,
And lang maun I nae mair weel be seen
Pu’ing the birks on the braes of Yarrow. 20
‘For she has tint her lover dear,
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow;
And I ha’e slain the comeliest swain
That ever pu’ed birks on the braes of Yarrow.
‘Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, reid? 25
Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow?
And why yon melancholious weeds,
Hung on the bonnie birks of Yarrow?
‘What’s yonder floats on the rueful flood?
What’s yonder floats? Oh, dule and sorrow! 30
Oh! ’tis the comely swain I slew
Upon the duleful banks of Yarrow!
‘Wash, oh, wash his wounds in tears,
His wounds in tears of dule and sorrow,
And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, 35
And lay him on the banks of Yarrow!
‘Then build, then build, ye sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb wi’ sorrow,
And weep around in waeful wise,
His helpless fate on the braes of Yarrow. 40
‘Curse ye, curse ye his useless shield,
The 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 love, 45
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 the grass,
Yellow on Yarrow’s braes the gowan, 50
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowin’.
‘Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet flows Tweed,
As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,
As sweet smells on its braes the birk, 55
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. 60
‘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.’
C. ‘How can I busk, a bonnie, bonnie bride, 65
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?
‘Oh, Yarrow fields! may never rain,
Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, 70
For there was basely slain my Love,
My Love, as he had not been a lover!
‘The boy put on his robes of green,
His purple vest, ’twas my ain sewin’:
Ah, wretched me! I little, little knew, 75
He was in these to meet his ruin.
‘The boy took out his milk-white steed,
Unmindful of my dule and sorrow;
But, ere the toofal of the night,
He lay a corpse on the banks of Yarrow. 80
‘Much I rejoiced that 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 father do, 85
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 proud;
With cruel and ungentle scoffing 90
May bid me seek on Yarrow’s braes
My lover nailèd in his coffin.
‘My brother Douglas may upbraid,
And strive with threatening words to move me;
My lover’s blude is on thy spear, 95
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! 100
‘But who the expected 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 down, 105
Oh, 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 beloved,
Oh, could my warmth to life restore thee! 110
Yet lie all night between my breasts;
No youth lay ever there before thee.
‘Pale, pale indeed, O lovely youth!
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,
And lie all night between my breasts; 115
No youth shall ever lie there after.’
A. Return, return, O mournful bride!
Return, and dry thy useless sorrow:
Thy lover heeds naught of thy sighs;
He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow! 120
_William Hamilton._
CLVI
_AULD ROBIN GRAY._
When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,
And a’ the warld to rest are gane,
The waes o’ my heart fa’ in showers frae my e’e,
While my gudeman lies sound by me.
Young Jamie lo’ed me weel, and sought me for his bride; 5
But saving a croun he had naething else beside:
To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;
And the croun and the pund were baith for me.
He hadna been awa’ a week but only twa,
When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa; 10
My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea--
And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin’ me.
My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;
I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win;
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi’ tears in his e’e 15
Said, Jennie, for their sakes, oh marry me!
My heart it said nay; I looked for Jamie back;
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;
His ship it was a wrack--why didna Jamie dee?
Or why do I live to cry, Wae’s me? 20
My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak;
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break:
They gi’ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea;
Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.
I hadna been a wife a week but only four, 25
When mournfu’ as I sat on the stane at the door,
I saw my Jamie’s wraith, for I couldna think it he--
Till he said, I’m come hame to marry thee.
O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;
We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away: 30
I wish that I were dead, but I’m no like to dee;
And why was I born to say, Wae’s me!
I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I’ll do my best a gude wife aye to be 35
For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.
_Lady Anne Lindsay._
CLVII
_THE PROGRESS OF POESY._
A PINDARIC ODE.
Awake, Æolian lyre, awake,
And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
From Helicon’s harmonious springs
A thousand rills their mazy progress take:
The laughing flowers, that round them blow, 5
Drink life and fragrance as they flow,
Now the rich stream of music winds along,
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,
Through verdant vales, and Ceres’ golden reign:
Now rolling down the steep amain, 10
Headlong, impetuous, see it pour:
The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.
O Sovereign of the willing soul,
Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares 15
And frantic Passions hear thy soft control:
On Thracia’s hills the Lord of War
Has curbed the fury of his car,
And dropped his thirsty lance at thy command.
Perching on the sceptred hand 20
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feathered king
With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:
Quenched in dark clouds of slumber lie
The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.
Thee the voice, the dance, obey, 25
Tempered to thy warbled lay;
O’er Idalia’s velvet-green
The rosy-crownèd Loves are seen
On Cytherea’s day,
With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleasures, 30
Frisking light in frolic measures;
Now pursuing, now retreating,
Now in circling troops they meet:
To brisk notes in cadence beating
Glance their many-twinkling feet. 35
Slow-melting strains their Queen’s approach declare:
Where’er she turns, the Graces homage pay:
With arms sublime that float upon the air,
In gliding state she wins her easy way:
O’er her warm cheek and rising bosom move 40
The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.
Man’s feeble race what ills await,
Labour and penury, the racks of pain,
Disease, and sorrow’s weeping train,
And death, sad refuge from the storms of fate! 45
The fond complaint, my song, disprove,
And justify the laws of Jove.
Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse?
Night, and all her sickly dews,
Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, 50
He gives to range the dreary sky;
Till down the eastern cliffs afar
Hyperion’s march they spy, and glittering shafts of war.
In climes beyond the solar road,
Where shaggy forms o’er ice-built mountains roam, 55
The Muse has broke the twilight gloom,
To cheer the shivering native’s dull abode.
And oft, beneath the odorous shade
Of Chili’s boundless forests laid,
She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, 60
In loose numbers wildly sweet,
Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves.
Her track, where’er the Goddess roves,
Glory pursue, and generous Shame,
The unconquerable Mind, and Freedom’s holy flame. 65
Woods that wave o’er Delphi’s steep,
Isles that crown the Ægean deep,
Fields that cool Ilissus laves,
Or where Mæander’s amber waves
In lingering labyrinths creep, 70
How do your tuneful echoes languish,
Mute, but to the voice of anguish?
Where each old poetic mountain
Inspiration breathed around;
Every shade and hallowed fountain 75
Murmured deep a solemn sound:
Till the sad Nine, in Greece’s evil hour,
Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,
And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. 80
When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,
They sought, O Albion, next thy sea-encircled coast.
Far from the sun and summer-gale,
In thy green lap was Nature’s darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon strayed, 85
To him the mighty Mother did unveil
Her awful face: the dauntless Child
Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled.
‘This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear
Richly paint the vernal year: 90
Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy!
This can unlock the gates of joy;
Of horror that, and thrilling fears,
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.’
Nor second he, that rode sublime 95
Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy,
The secrets of the abyss to spy.
He passed the flaming bounds of place and time:
The living Throne, the sapphire-blaze,
Where angels tremble while they gaze, 100
He saw; but, blasted with excess of light,
Closed his eyes in endless night.
Behold, where Dryden’s less presumptuous car,
Wide o’er the fields of glory bear
Two coursers of ethereal race, 105
With necks in thunder clothed, and long resounding pace.
Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o’er,
Scatters from her pictured urn
Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. 110
But ah! ’tis heard no more--
O lyre divine, what daring spirit
Wakes thee now? Though he inherit
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
That the Theban Eagle bear, 115
Sailing with supreme dominion
Through the azure deep of air:
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms as glitter in the Muse’s ray
With orient hues, unborrowed of the sun: 120
Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,
Beneath the good how far!--but far above the great.
_Thomas Gray._
CLVIII
_SONNET._
When I behold thee, blameless Williamson,
Wrecked like an infant on a savage shore,
While others round on borrowed pinions soar,
My busy fancy calls thy thread misspun;
Till Faith instructs me the deceit to shun, 5
While thus she speaks,--‘Those wings that from the store
Of virtue were not lent, howe’er they bore
In this gross air, will melt when near the sun.
The truly’ ambitious wait for nature’s time,
Content by certain, though by slow, degrees 10
To mount above the reach of vulgar flight;
Nor is that man confined to this low clime,
Who but the extremest skirts of glory sees,
And hears celestial echoes with delight.’
_Benjamin Stillingfleet._
CLIX
_TO THE RIVER LODON._
Ah! what a weary race my feet have run,
Since first I trod thy banks with alders crowned,
And thought my way was all through fairy ground,
Beneath thy azure sky and golden sun;
Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun! 5
While pensive Memory traces back the round
Which fills the varied interval between,
Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene.
Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure
No more return, to cheer my evening road; 10
Yet still one joy remains--that not obscure,
Nor useless, all my vacant days have flowed,
From youth’s gay dawn to manhood’s prime mature,
Nor with the Muse’s laurel unbestowed.
_Thomas Warton._
CLX
_TO MARY UNWIN._
Mary! I want a lyre with other strings,
Such aid from heaven as some have feigned they drew,
An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new
And undebased by praise of meaner things,
That ere through age or woe I shed my wings, 5
I may record thy worth with honour due,
In verse as musical as thou art true,
And that immortalizes whom it sings:--
But thou hast little need. There is a Book
By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, 10
On which the eyes of God not rarely look,
A chronicle of actions just and bright--
There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine;
And since thou own’st that praise, I spare thee mine.
_William Cowper._
CLXI
_TO THE SAME._
The twentieth year is well nigh past,
Since first our sky was overcast;
Ah would that this might be the last,
My Mary!
Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 5
I see thee daily weaker grow--
’Twas my distress that brought thee low,
My Mary!
Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore, 10
Now rust disused, and shine no more,
My Mary!
For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 15
My Mary!
But well thou play’dst the housewife’s part,
And all thy threads with magic art
Have wound themselves about this heart,
My Mary! 20
Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language uttered in a dream;
Yet me they charm, whate’er the theme,
My Mary!
Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 25
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,
My Mary!
For could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see? 30
The sun would rise in vain for me,
My Mary!
Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently pressed, press gently mine, 35
My Mary!
Such feebleness of limbs thou prov’st
That now at every step thou mov’st
Upheld by two; yet still thou lov’st,
My Mary! 40
And still to love, though pressed with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,
My Mary!
But ah! by constant heed I know 45
How oft the sadness that I show
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
My Mary!
And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past, 50
Thy worn-out heart will break at last--
My Mary!
_William Cowper._
CLXII
_TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF ADDISON._
If, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stayed,
And left her debt to Addison unpaid,
Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan,
And judge, oh judge, my bosom by your own.
What mourner ever felt poetic fires! 5
Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires:
Grief unaffected suits but ill with art,
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.
Can I forget the dismal night that gave
My soul’s best part for ever to the grave! 10
How silent did his old companions tread,
By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead,
Through breathing statues, then unheeded things,
Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings!
What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire; 15
The pealing organ, and the pausing choir;
The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid;
And the last words that dust to dust conveyed!
While speechless o’er thy closing grave we bend,
Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. 20
Oh, gone for ever! take this long adieu;
And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague.
To strew fresh laurels let the task be mine,
A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine;
Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan, 25
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone.
If e’er from me thy loved memorial part,
May shame afflict this alienated heart;
Of thee forgetful if I form a song,
My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue, 30
My grief be doubled, from thy image free,
And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee.
Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone,
Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown,
Along the walls where speaking marbles show 35
What worthies form the hallowed mould below;
Proud names, who once the reins of empire held;
In arms who triumphed; or in arts excelled;
Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood;
Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood; 40
Just men, by whom impartial laws were given;
And saints who taught, and led, the way to heaven.
Ne’er to these chambers, where the mighty rest,
Since their foundation, came a nobler guest;
Nor e’er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed 45
A fairer spirit or more welcome shade.
In what new region, to the just assigned,
What new employments please the unbodied mind?
A wingèd Virtue, through the ethereal sky,
From world to world unwearied does he fly? 50
Or curious trace the long laborious maze
Of Heaven’s decrees, where wondering angels gaze?
Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell
How Michael battled, and the dragon fell;
Or, mixed with milder cherubim, to glow 55
In hymns of love, not ill essayed below?
Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind,
A task well suited to thy gentle mind?
Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend,
To me thy aid, thou guardian Genius, lend! 60
When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms,
When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms,
In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart,
And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart;
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, 65
Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.
That awful form, which, so the Heavens decree,
Must still be loved and still deplored by me,
In nightly visions seldom fails to rise,
Or, roused by Fancy, meets my waking eyes. 70
If business calls, or crowded courts invite,
The unblemished statesman seems to strike my sight;
If in the stage I seek to soothe my care,
I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there;
If pensive to the rural shades I rove, 75
His shape o’ertakes me in the lonely grove;
’Twas there of just and good he reasoned strong,
Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song:
There patient showed us the wise course to steer,
A candid censor, and a friend severe; 80
There taught us how to live; and (oh! too high
The price for knowledge) taught us how to die.
Thou Hill, whose brow the antique structures grace,
Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick’s noble race,
Why, once so loved, whene’er thy bower appears, 85
O’er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears!
How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair,
Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air!
How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noon-tide shadow, and thy evening breeze! 90
His image thy forsaken bowers restore;
Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more;
No more the summer in thy glooms allayed,
Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade.
From other ills, however Fortune frowned; 95
Some refuge in the Muse’s art I found:
Reluctant now I touch the trembling string,
Bereft of him who taught me how to sing;
And these sad accents, murmured o’er his urn,
Betray that absence they attempt to mourn. 100
Oh must I then (now fresh my bosom bleeds,
And Craggs in death to Addison succeeds)
The verse, begun to one lost friend, prolong,
And weep a second in the unfinished song!
These works divine, which, on his death-bed laid, 105
To thee, O Craggs, the expiring sage conveyed,
Great, but ill-omened, monument of fame,
Nor he survived to give, nor thou to claim.
Swift after him thy social spirit flies,
And close to his, how soon! thy coffin lies. 110
Blest pair! whose union future bards shall tell
In future tongues: each other’s boast! farewell,
Farewell! whom joined in fame, in friendship tried,
No chance could sever, nor the grave divide.
_Thomas Tickell._
CLXIII
_ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY._