For de good Talbot is made a lord,

Lilli, &c.

And with brave lads is coming aboard:
Lilli, &c.

Who all in France have taken a sware,
Lilli, &c.

Dat dey will have no protestant heir.
Lilli, &c.

Ara! but why does he stay behind?

Lilli, &c.

Ho! by my shoul 'tis a protestant wind.
Lilli, &c.

But see de Tyrconnel is now come ashore,
Lilli, &c.

And we shall have commissions gillore.

Lilli, &c.

And he dat will not go to de mass,

Lilli, &c.

Shall be turn out, and look like an ass.

Lilli, &c.

Now, now de hereticks all go down,

Lilli, &c.

20

25

30

35

40

By Chrish and shaint Patrick, de nation's our own.

6

Lilli, &c.

Dare was an old prophesy found in a bog,

Lilli, &c.

Ireland shall be rul'd by an ass, and a dog.' 45

Lilli, &c.

Ver. 43, What follows is not in some copies.

And now dis prophesy is come to pass,

Lilli, &c.

For Talbot's de dog, and JA**s is de ass.

Lilli, &c.

The foregoing song is attributed to Lord Wharton in a small pamphlet, intitled, A true relation of the several facts and circumstances of the intended riot and tumult on Q. Elizabeth's birth-day &c,' 3d. ed. Lond. 1712, pr. 2d.— See p. 5, viz. A late Viceroy [of Ireland,] who has so often boasted himself upon his talent for mischief, invention, lying, and for making a certain Lilliburlero song; with which, if you will believe himself, he sung a deluded Prince out of Three Kingdoms.'

XXIV.

THE BRAES OF YARROW,

IN IMITATION OF THE ANCIENT SCOTS MANNER,

-was written by William Hamilton, of Bangour, Esq; who died March 25, 1754, aged 50. It is printed from an elegant edition of his Poems published at Edinburgh, 1760, 12mo. This song was written in imitation of an old Scottish ballad on a similar subject, with the same burden to each stanza.1

A. BUSK ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,

And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

B. Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride?
Where gat ye that winsome marrow?
A. I gat her where I dare na weil be seen,

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride,

Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow;
Nor let thy heart lament to leive

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

5

10

1 Wordsworth, in his exquisite Yarrow Unvisited,' quotes this Ballad.—ED.

B. Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride?
Why does she weep thy winsome marrow?
And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow?

15

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
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

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

That eir pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

20

20

Why rins thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, reid? 25
Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow?
And why yon melancholious weids

Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow?

What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude?
What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow!

O'tis he the comely swain I slew

Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.

Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,
His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow;
And wrap his limbs in mourning weids,

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 hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.

30

35

40

Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield,
My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierc'd his breast,

His comely breast on the Braes of Yarrow.

Did I not warn thee, not to, not to luve?

And warn from fight? but to my sorrow

Too rashly bauld a stronger arm

45

Thou mett'st, and fell'st on the Braes of Yarrow.

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows

the grass,

Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan,

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

50

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 its rock as mellow.

Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve,
In flow'ry bands thou didst him fetter;
Tho' he was fair, and well beluv'd again
Than me he never luv'd thee better.

Busk ye, then, busk, my bonny bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
Busk ye, and luve me on the banks of Tweed,

And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

C. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride,
How can I busk a winsome marrow,

55

60

65

How luve him upon the banks of Tweed,

That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow?

O Yarrow fields, may never never rain,

Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, For there was basely slain my luve,

My luve, as he had not been a lover.

The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,
His purple vest, 'twas my awn sewing:
Ah! wretched me! I little, little kenn'd
He was in these to meet his ruin.

70

75

The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, Unheedful of my dule and sorrow:

But ere the toofall of the night

He lay a corps on the Braes of Yarrow.

Much I rejoyc'd that waeful waeful day;

I sang, my voice the woods returning:
But lang ere night the spear was flown,
That slew my luve, and left me mourning.

80

What can my barbarous barbarous father do,
But with his cruel rage pursue me?

85

My luver's blood is on thy spear,

How canst thou, barbarous man, then wooe me?

My happy sisters may be, may be proud

90

With cruel, and ungentle scoffin',

May bid me seek on Yarrow's Braes
My luver nailed in his coffin.

My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid,
And strive with threatning words to muve me: