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After this proud foe subduing,

When your patriot friends you see,
Think on vengeance for my ruin,
And for England shamed in me.'

Richard Glover.

CXLII

LAMENT FOR FLODDEN.

I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,

Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning---
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

4 At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,

Lassies are lonely and dowie and wae;
Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,

Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away.
In har’st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,

Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray;
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching--

The. Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

IO

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming

'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play ; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie

The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.

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• 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 ewe-milking;

Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaningThe Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Jane Elliott.

CXLIII

WAE’S ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE.

A wee bird came to our ha' door;

He warbled sweet and clearly ;
And aye the o'ercome o' his sang

Was Wae's me for Prince Charlie!'
Oh! when I heard the bonny, bonny bird,

The tears came drapping rarely;
I took my bonnet aff my head,

For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie.

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Quoth I; My bird, my bonny, bonny bird,

Is that a tale ye borrow ?
Or is't some words ye've learned by rote,

Or a lilt o' dool and sorrow?'
"Oh no, no, no,' the wee bird sang,

• I've flown sin’ morning early ; But sic a day o'wind and rain

Oh wae's me for Prince Charlie !

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O’er hills that are by right his ain

He roams a lonely stranger;
On ilka hand he's pressed by want,

On ilka side by danger.
Yestreen I met him in the glen,

My heart near bursted fairly : For sadly changed indeed was he

Oh! wae's me for Prince Charlie!

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* Dark night came on; the tempest howled

Out owre the hills and valleys;
And whare was't that your Prince lay down,

Whase hame should be a palace?

He rowed him in a Highland plaid,

Which covered him but sparely,
And slept beneath a bush o' broom-

Oh! wae's me for Prince Charlie!'

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But now the bird saw some red coats,

And he shook his wings wi' anger : • Oh, this is no a land for me

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I'll tarry here nae langer.'
A while he hovered on the wing,

Ere he departed fairly;
But weel I mind the farewell strain-
'Twas Wae's me for Prince Charlie !!

40 William Glen.

CXLIV

AN ODE.

IN IMITATION OF ALCÆUS.

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What constitutes a State ?
Not high-raised battlement or laboured mound,

Thick wall or moated gate ;
Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned ;

Not bays and broad-armed ports,
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ;

Not starred and spangled courts,
Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride.

No :-men, high-minded men,
With powers as far above dull brutes endued

In forest, brake, or den,
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude ;

Men, who their duties know,
But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain,

Prevent the long-aimed blow,
And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain :

IO

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These constitute a State,
And sovereign Law, that State's collected will,

O'er thrones and globes elate,
Sits Empress, crowning good, repressing ill.

Smit by her sacred frown,
The fiend, Dissension, like a vapour sinks,

And e'en the all-dazzling Crown
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.

Such was this heaven-loved isle,
Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore !

No more shall Freedom smile ?
Shall Britons languish, and be men no more ?

Since all must life resign,
Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave,

'Tis folly to decline,
And steal inglorious to the silent grave.

Sir William Jones,

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CXLV

ODE.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1746.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod

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Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

William Collins.

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CXLVI

ODE TO THE CUCKOO.

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Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of spring!
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.
What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?
Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.
The schoolboy, wandering through the wood
To pull the primrose gay,
Starts, the new voice of spring to hear,
And imitates thy lay.
What time the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou Aiest thy vocal vale,
An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.
Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear ;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year !
Oh could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring.

John Logan.

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