Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, are cauld in | the clay. We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewemilking; Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. - ROBERT TANNAHILL. [1774-1810.] THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE THE midges dance aboon the burn; Beneath the golden gloamin' sky The mavis mends her lay; The redbreast pours his sweetest strains, Gaes jinking through the thorn. The honeysuckle and the birk Let others crowd the giddy court Of mirth and revelry, The simple joys that Nature yields GEORGE CROLY. A sacred spark created by His breath, The immortal mind of man His image bears; A spirit living 'midst the forms of death, Oppressed but not subdued by mortal cares; 91 To live in forests mingled with the whole Of natural forms, whose generations rise, In lovely change, in happy order roll, On land, in ocean, in the glittering skies; Their harmony to trace; the Eternal cause To know in love, in reverence to adore; To bend beneath the inevitable laws, Sinking in death, its human strength no more! Then, as awakening from a dream of pain, With joy its mortal feelings to resign; Yet all its living essence to retain, The undying energy of strength divine! To quit the burdens of its earthly days, To give to nature all her borrowed powers, Ethereal fire to feed the solar rays, Ethereal dew to glad the earth with showers. GEORGE CROLY. [1780-1860.] CUPID GROWN CAREFUL. THERE was once a gentle time With his purple wings and bow; And in blossomed vale and grove Then a rosy, dimpled cheek, But that time is gone and past, O, for the old true-love time, HENRY KIRKE WHITE. [1785-1806.] TO THE HERB ROSEMARY. Come, press my lips, and lie with me Beneath the lowly alder-tree, And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And not a care shall dare intrude, To break the marble solitude So peaceful and so deep. And hark! the wind-god, as he flies, Sweet flower! that requiem wild is It warns me to the lonely shrine, The cold turf altar of the dead; A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire! Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms, And cradled in the winds. Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory. In this low vale, the promise of the year, SWEET-SCENTED flower! who 'rt wont to Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, bloom On January's front severe, And o'er the wintry desert drear Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell Unnoticed and alone, |