"But hark! the cock has warned me hence;

A long and last adieu!

Come see, false man, how low she lies,
Who died for love of you."

The lark sung loud; the morning smiled
With beams of rosy red:
Pale William quaked in every limb,
And raving left his bed.

He hied him to the fatal place
Where Margaret's body lay;

And stretched him on the green-grass turf
That wrapt her breathless clay.

And thrice he called on Margaret's name,
And thrice he wept full sore;

Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,
And word spake never more!

THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY

THE smiling morn, the breathing spring, Invite the tunefu' birds to sing;

And, while they warble from the spray,

Love melts the universal lay.

Let us, Amánda, timely wise,

Like them, improve the hour that flies;
And in soft raptures waste the day,
Among the birks of Invermay.

For soon the winter of the year,
And age, life's winter, will appear;
At this thy living bloom will fade,
As that will strip the verdant shade.
Our taste of pleasure then is o'er,
The feathered songsters are no more;
And when they drop and we decay.
Adieu the birks of Invermay!

Robert Crawford.

About 1700
Drowned 1733

AUTHOR of Tweedside," and "The Bush aboon Traquair." He assisted Allan Ramsay in his "Tea Table Miscellany." He was drowned on his return from France in 1733.

THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR.

HEAR me, ye nymphs, and every swain,
I'll tell how Peggy grieves me;
Though thus I languish and complain,
Alas! she ne'er believes me.
My vows and sighs, like silent air,
Unheeded, never move her;
At the bonny Bush aboon Traquair,
'Twas there I first did love her.

That day she smiled and made me glad,
No maid seemed ever kinder;
I thought myself the luckiest lad,
So sweetly there to find her;
I tried to soothe my amorous flame,
In words that I thought tender;
If more there passed, I'm not to blame
I meant not to offend her.

Yet now she scornful flees the plain,
The fields we then frequented;
If e'er we meet she shews disdain,
She looks as ne'er acquainted.
The bonny bush bloomed fair in May,
Its sweets I'll aye remember;
But now her frowns make it decay -
It fades as in December.

Ye rural powers, who hear my strains,
Why thus should Peggy grieve me :
O make her partner in my pains,
Then let her smiles relieve me:
If not, my love will turn despair,
My passion no more tender;
I'll leave the Bush aboon Traquair-
To lonely wilds I'll wander.

Philip Doddridge.

(Born 1702.

A CELEBRATED English divine, born in London, 26th June 1702. His father was a clergyman in the English Church, but died while he was only thirteen. Doddridge, from conscientious motives, joined the Nonconformists; he soon became one of their most popular ministers, and in 1729 he was settled at Northampton. He is the author of many hymns, which are to be found in almost every collection of sacred poetry died on 26th October 1751.

Не

SELF-DEDICATION REVIEWED.

O HAPPY day that fix'd my choice
On Thee, my Saviour and my God!
Well may this glowing heart rejoice,
And tell its raptures all abroad.
'Tis done, the great transaction's done!
I am my Lord's, and He is mine;
He drew me, and I follow'd on,
Charm'd to confess the voice divine.

Now rest my long-divided heart,
Fix'd on this blissful centre, rest:

Nor ever from thy Lord depart,
With Him of every good possess'd

High Heav'n, that heard the solemn vow
That vow renew'd shall daily hear;

Till in life's latest hour I bow,

And bless in death a bond so dear.

THE HEAVENLY SABBATH.

LORD of the Sabbath! hear us pray,
In this thy house, on this thy day;
Accept as grateful sacrifice,

The songs which from thy people rise.

Thine earthly Sabbaths, Lord! we love;
But there's a nobler rest above;

To that our lab'ring souls aspire,
With ardent hope and strong desire.

P

In thy bless'd kingdom we shall be
From every care and trouble free;
No sighs shall mingle with the songs
Resounding from immortal tongues.
No rude alarms of raging foes,
No cares to break the long repose,
No clouded sun, no changeful moon,
But sacred, high, eternal noon.

Lord of the Sabbath! hear us pray,
In this thy house, on this thy day;
Soon shall we leave this weary road,
To sleep in death, and rest in God.

William Hamilton.

{

Born 1704

Died 1754

WILLIAM HAMILTON of Bangour, in Ayrshire, a Scottish gentleman of rank, became early distinguished for his poetical talents, and was the delight of the gay circles in his own country. He joined the standard of Prince Charles, and became the laureate of the Jacobites. After Culloden he narrowly escaped to France; but obtaining a pardon he returned to his paternal estate. He is the author of the beautiful ballad "The Braes of Yarrow."

BRAES OF YARROW.

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 darena weel be seen,

Pu'ing 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 leave

Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

B. Why does she weep, thy bonny, bonny bride?
Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow?
And why dare ye nae mair weel be seen,
Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

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

Pu'ing 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 comeliest swain

That e'er pu'd 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, O 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 lo'e,

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 flowin'.

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