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IX.

Why did you promise love to me,

And not that promise keep?

Why did you swear my eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep?

X.

How could you say my face was fair,

And yet that face forsake?

How could you win my virgin heart, Yet leave that heart to break?

XI.

Why did you say my lip was sweet, And made the scarlet pale?

And why did I, young witless maid ! Believe the flattering tale?

XII.

That face, alas! no more is fair,

Those lips no longer red:

Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, And every charm is fled.

XIII.

The hungry worm my sister is;

This winding sheet I wear: And cold and weary lasts our night, Till that last morn appear.

XIV.

But hark! the cock has warned me hence; A long and late adieu !

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

XV.

The lark sung loud; the morning smiled
With beams of rosy red:

Pale William quaked in every limb,
And raving left his bed.

XVI.

He hied him to the fatal place

Where Margaret's body lay;

That wrapt her breathless clay.

XVII.

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!

EDWIN AND EMMA.

I.

Far in the windings of a vale,

Fast by a sheltering wood, The safe retreat of health and peace, A humble cottage stood.

II.

There beauteous Emma flourished fair, Beneath a mother's eye;

Whose only wish on earth was now

To see her blest, and die.

III.

The softest blush that nature spreads

Gave colour to her cheek;

Such orient colour smiles through heaven, When vernal mornings break.

IV.

Nor let the pride of great ones scorn

This charmer of the plains: That sun, who bids their diamonds blaze, To paint our lily deigns.

V.

Long had she filled each youth with love,
Each maiden with despair;

And though by all a wonder owned,
Yet knew not she was fair :

VI.

Till Edwin came, the pride of swains, A soul devoid of art;

And from whose eye, serenely mild,

Shone forth the feeling heart.

VII.

And stretched him on the grass-green turf A mutual flame was quickly caught,

Was quickly too revealed;

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Just then she reached, with trembling I feel, I feel this breaking heart

step,

Her aged mother's door :

He's gone! she cried, and I shall see That angel-face no more.

Beat high against my side!

From her white arm down sunk her head

She shivering, sighed, and died.

WILLIAM HAMILTON.

1704-1754.

THE tragic love ballad is a characteristic production of the times at which we have now arrived, and the "Braes of Yarrow" is an excellent specimen of the class; but with special features of its own. Its author, William Hamilton

of Bangour, was born in 1704. He was descended from an ancient Ayrshire family; and mixed in the highest social circles of Edinburgh society, where his poetical accomplishments (he can hardly be described as a poetical genius) made him a favourite. He was also one of the band of young gentlemen who assisted Allan Ramsay with his Tea-Table Miscellany.

Attracted by the romance of the enterprise, he joined the standard of the young Pretender on the breaking out of the Rebellion of 1745-6, and became the laureate of the expedition. After its collapse, he escaped to France, and, having influential friends on the royal side, was more fortunate in obtaining an early pardon, and the restoration of his estate, than most of his compatriots. He was of a delicate constitu

tion, and his health having given way he returned to France, whose warmer climate was better adapted to his enfeebled frame; yet even here he did not long survive, for he died at Lyons in 1754, in his fiftieth year.

An imperfect edition of his poems was published in Glasgow, in 1748, by an unknown editor, and it was not till 1760 that a correct edition was printed from his own manuscripts.

His style, while very correct as regards the purity of its English, is too ornate and fanciful to give that impression of real passion and spontaneity without which amatory lyric poetry is mere affectation. His "Braes of Yarrow" is the only production of his in which, with some exceptional conceits, the directness and simplicity proper to this style of composition is preserved. Wordsworth had it in view in the composition of his poems on the Yarrow.

An edition of Hamilton's poems was published in 1850, edited by James Paterson, the author of several books connected with Ayrshire.

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IX.

Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny Wash, oh wash his wounds his wounds in

bride,

Weep not, weep not, my winsome

marrow !

Nor let thy heart lament to leave

Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

IV.

Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny

bride?

tears,

His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow, And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.

X.

Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad,

Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow,

Why does she weep, thy winsome And weep around in waeful wise,

marrow?

And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen, Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow?

V.

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

Pouing thebirks on the Braes of Yarrow.

VI.

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 poued birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.

XI.

Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield,

Myarm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierced his breast, His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow.

XII.

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.

XIII.

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green

grows the grass,

Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan,

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XXVI.

The boy put on his robes, his robes of But who the expected husband husband is?

green,

His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewing, Ah! wretched me! I little little kenned He was in these to meet his ruin.

XX.

The boy took out his milk-white milkwhite steed,

Unheedful of my dule and sorrow,

His hands, methinks, are bathed in

slaughter,

Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,

Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after ?

XXVII.

Pale as he is, here lay him lay him down, O lay his cold head on my pillow;

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