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"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, not to love, 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, green grows

the grass,

Yellow on Yarrow's braes the gowan;

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowing!"

"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 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.

"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!"

"How can I busk, a bonnie, bonnie bride?

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!

"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 knew

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 ere the to-fall of the night

He lay a corpse on the braes of Yarrow.

"Much I rejoiced, that woeful, woeful 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's braes,
My lover nailed in his coffin.

"My brother Douglas may upbraid,

And strive with threat'ning 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! Oh! 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."

"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."

ALEXANDER WEBSTER.

1707-1784.

One of the ministers of Edinburgh, where he was born and where he died, Dr. Webster has left two songs to the tune of Alloa House, of which much the finer is that here given. According to a tradition preserved by Chambers, this song was written in early life "in consequence of a lady of superior rank, whom Webster was engaged to woo for another, condescending to betray a passion for him." The lady was a daughter of Colonel Erskine of Alloa, a near relation of the Dundonald family, and it is satisfactory to know that she eventually married the man of her choice, who could sing her charms in such fervent fashion.

O. HOW COULD I VENTURE.

Он, how could I venture to love one like thee,
And you not despise a poor conquest like me—
On lords, thy admirers, could look wi' disdain,
And knew I was naething, yet pitied my pain?
You said, while they teased you with nonsense and
dress,

"When real the passion the vanity's less."

You saw through that silence which others despise, And, while beaux were a-talking, read love in my

eyes.

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