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The sails are torn, the ship a wreck ;

The Mermaid sweet is singing,
And the crystal halls where the sea-nymphs bathe,

Are merrily, merrily ringing.
And many a tear for these Mariners lost,

From maidens' eyes are streaming,
While reckless they sleep in their wat'ry shroud,

Nor of ought that's earthly dr ng

CXCIV.

NOW WINTER IS GANE *

Now winter is gane and the clouds flee away,

Yon bonny blue sky how delightfu' to see,
Now linties and blackbirds sing on ilka spray
That flourishes round Woodhouselee.

The hawthorn is blooming,
The saft breeze perfuming,

* We extract this Song from a selection made by Mr. R. A. Smith, Teacher of Music, Paisley, for the use of his Pupils, where also occurs the following notice concerning its authors:

" It may be interesting to many, to learn, that this little song is the joint production of the late Mr. John Hamilton of Edinburgh, (author of the po. pular Scottish song, “ Up in the morning early,") &c. and Tannahill."

O come, my dear Lassie, the season is gay,
And naething mair lovely can be:

The primrose and lily,

We'll pu' in the valley,
And lean when we like on some gowany brae,

That rises beside Woodhouselee.

Ye mind when the snaw lay sae deep on the hill,

When cauld icy cranreugh hung white on the tree, When bushes were leafless, and mournfully still Were the wee birds o sweet Woodhouselee.

When snaw show'rs were fa'ing,

And wintry winds blawing,
Loud whistling o'er mountain and meadow so chill,
We mark'd it wi' sorrowing ee :

since the flowers
Again busk the bowers,
O come, my dear Lassie, wi' smiling guidwill,

And wander around Woodhouselee.

But now,

“ Mr. H. wrote the first stanzą for an ancient Irish melody, “ The fair haired child,” but after several unavailing attempts to proceed farther, he applied to Tannahill, through the medium of a friend, for a second verse; in a short time the request was complied with, and the Bard sent it to his friend with the following note, “ Mr. Hamilton's stanza is admirably suited to the air; in my opinion his lines possess, in an eminent degree, that beautiful, natural simplicity, which characterizes our best Scotish songs; I have attempted to add a verse to it, but I fear you will think it but-a frigid production; the original one is so complete in itself, that he who tries another to it, labours under the disadvantage of not knowing what to say farther on the subject. However, I give you all that I could make of it.”

CXCV. '

CLAUDINE LIV'D CONTENTED.

Claudine liv'd contented, and peace was her lot,

No care would have found her abode,
Hadn't Love, that destroyer, one day to her cot,

Unkindly, shewn Sorrow the road.
To Love, she unthinkingly opend the door,

But he laugh’d, and then left her,
He left her, because she was poor.

With just indignation, she saw him depart,

And perhaps had to fate been resign’d,
But Love not contented with stealing her heart,

Unkindly, left Sorrow behind.
Ah! why, simple girl, did she open thc door,

To one who could leave her,
Could leave her, because she was poor.

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CXCVI.

THE BRAES OF YARROW,

« Thy braės were bonny, Yarrow stream!

When first on thee I met my lover;
Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream!

When now thy waves his body cover!
For ever now, O Yarrow stream!

Thou art to me a stream of sorrow;
For never on thy banks shall I

Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow.

“ He promis'd me a milk-white steed,

To bear me to his father's bowers;

* The subject of the following lament, is the grief of a young woman for the death of her lover, who was drowned in the Yarrow. She is supposed to be on the banks of that rivulet, which recal to her memory scenes that had passed there between her and her lover; and her recollection being thus awakened, every circumstance connected with their interviews is reflected on with delight. Although the poemn cannot lay claim to originality of ideas being founded on the fragment of “ Willie's drown'd in Yarrow," yet the simple, natural, and pathetic style in which it is composed, place it on a level with any poem of the same kind in our language. It was written by the Rev. Juhn Logan, late one of the Ministers of South Leith, a man of genias and refined taste.

He promis'd me a little page,

To squire me to his father's towers; He promis'd me a wedding-ring,

The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow; Now he is wedded to his grave,

Alas! his watery grave in Yarrow.

“ Sweet were his words, when last we met;

My passion I as freely told him; Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought,

That I should never more behold him! Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;

It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow: Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,

And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow.

“ His mother from the window look'd,

With all the longing of a mother; His little sister weeping walk'd,

The green-wood path, to meet her brother: They sought him east, they sought him west,

They sought him all the forest thorough; They only saw the cloud of night,

They only heard the roar of Yarrow!

« No longer from thy window look,

Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! No longer walk, thou lovely maid!

Alas! thou hast no more a brother!

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