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Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Or is it some more humble lay,
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
YARROW UNVISITED. 1803.
[See the various poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite ballad of Hamilton, beginning—
'Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride,
From Stirling's castle we had seen
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
'Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
But we will downwards with the Tweed,
'There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
'What's Yarrow but a river bare,
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder.'
-Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;
My True-love sighed for sorrow;
And looked me in the face, to think
I thus could speak of Yarrow !
'Oh! green,' said I, 'are Yarrow's holms,
And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock1,
But we will leave it growing.
O'er hilly path, and open strath,
But, though so near, we will not turn
Into the dale of Yarrow.
'Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake
swan and shadow !
We will not see them; will not go
nor yet to-morrow; Enough if in our hearts we know
There's such a place as Yarrow.
'Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! It must, or we shall rue it;
We have a vision of our own;
Ah! why should we undo it?
The treasured dreams of times long past,
'If Care with freezing years should come, And wandering seem but folly,—
Should we be loath to stir from home,
And yet be melancholy;
Should life be dull, and spirits low,
'Twill soothe us in our sorrow,
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny holms of Yarrow.'
TO THE CUCKOO.
O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo shall I call thee Bird,
While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear,
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At once far off, and near.
Though babbling only to the Vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing,
A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
And I can listen to thee yet;
That golden time again.
O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
An unsubstantial, faery place:
AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS. 1803.
(Seven Years after his Death.)
I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold,
At thought of what I now behold:
As vapours breathed from dungeons cold
So sadness comes from out the mould
And have I then thy bones so near,
Off weight-nor press on weight!-away
To him, and aught that hides his clay
Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth
Doth glorify its humble birth
The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow,
The prompt, the brave,
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low
I mourned with thousands, but as one
How Verse may build a princely throne
Alas! where'er the current tends,
By Skiddaw seen,—
Neighbours we were, and loving friends
True friends though diversely inclined; But heart with heart and mind with mind, Where the main fibres are entwined,
Through Nature's skill,
May even by contraries be joined
More closely still.