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Pale, pale indeed, O lovely, lovely youth!
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,
And lie all night between my breasts,
No youth shall ever lie there after.

Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride,
Return and dry thy useless sorrow,

Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs,
He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow.

Of this song Mr. Pinkerton says, "It is in very bad taste, and quite unlike the ancient Scottish manner; even inferior to the poorest of the old ballads with this title. His repeated words and lines causing an eternal jinglehis confused narration and affected pathos throw this piece among the rubbish of poetry." I have ever observed, that when Pinkerton pauses a little, gathers himself up, and utters a weighty and deliberate judgment, he is sure to make a mistake. In matters of poetic taste, trust only his hurried glance or his hasty allusion,— when he thinks seriously, he thinks wrong. It is one of the very sweetest and tenderest productions of the Muse.

Among the admirers of the "Braes of Yarrow," let me mention Wordsworth, who in all that relates to taste and genius is well worth as many Pinkertons as could stand between Rydal-mount and Yarrow. He calls it the exquisite ballad of Hamilton; and in his Yarrow Unvisited and Yarrow Visited-poems that would immortalise any stream-his allusions to the song are frequent and flattering. He had a vision of his own—an

image nobler and lovelier which the song had created in his fancy-he saw the stream and said—

And is this Yarrow ?-This the stream

Of which my fancy cherish'd
So faithfully a waking dream?

An image that hath perish'd!
O! that some minstrel harp were near
To utter notes of gladness,
And chase this silence from the air
That fills my heart with sadness.

MY PEGGY IS A YOUNG THING.

My Peggy is a young thing,

Just enter'd in her teens,

Fair as the day, and sweet as May,

Fair as the day, and always gay.

My Peggy is a young thing,
And I'm not very auld,
Yet well I like to meet her at
The wauking of the fauld.

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
Whene'er we meet alane,

I wish nae mair to lay my care,
I wish nae mair of a' that's rare.

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
To a' the lave I'm cauld;

But she gars a' my spirits glow
At wauking of the fauld.

My Peggy smiles sae kindly,
Whene'er I whisper love,

That I look down on a' the town,
That I look down upon a crown.
My Peggy smiles sae kindly,

It makes me blyth and bauld,
And naething gi'es me sic delight,
As wauking of the fauld.

My Peggy sings sae saftly,
When on my pipe I play ;
By a' the rest it is confess'd,
By a' the rest, that she sings best.
My Peggy sings sae saftly,

And in her sangs are tauld,
With innocence the wale of sense,
At wauking of the fauld.

The songs which Ramsay wrote for his "Gentle Shepherd" are inferior to that fine pastoral; instead of adorning the text, they encumber it. They are, however, so generally known, and so popular through the aid of the drama, that a collection would be reckoned incomplete without them. They echo, and echo faintly, the preceding text; and they have little of the readiness

of language and alacrity of humour, and lyric grace of composition, which distinguish many of Allan's songs. "My Peggy is a young thing" is partly founded on an old song which commences thus

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If the wit and the humour of this ancient lyric were not enclosed with grossness and indelicacy, as a thistle bloom is beset with its prickles, it would be worthy of acceptation in any company.

THE YOUNG LAIRD AND EDINBURGH KATY.

Now wat ye wha I met yestreen,
Coming down the street, my jo?
My mistress in her tartan screen,
Fu' bonny, braw, and sweet, my jo.
My dear, quoth I, thanks to the night,
That never wish'd a lover ill,

Since ye're out of your mither's sight,
Let's take a wauk up to the hill.

O Katy, wiltu' gang wi' me,

And leave the dinsome town a while?

The blossom's sprouting frae the tree,
And a' the simmer's gaun to smile:
The mavis, nightingale, and lark,
The bleating lambs, and whistling hind,
In ilka dale, green, shaw, and park,
Will nourish health, and glad ye'r mind.

Soon as the clear goodman of day
Bends his morning-draught of dew,
We'll gae to some burn-side and play,
And gather flow'rs to busk ye'r brow;
We'll pou the daisies on the green,
The lucken gowans frae the bog:
Between hands now and then we'll lean,
And sport upon the velvet fog.

There's up into a pleasant glen,
A wee piece frae my father's tow'r,
A canny, saft, and flow'ry den,

Which circling birks have form'd a bow'r:
Whene'er the sun grows high and warm,
We'll to the cauler shade remove,
There will I lock thee in mine arm,

And love and kiss, and kiss and love.

Allan Ramsay wrote this very clever and very natural song, and printed it in his collection in 1724. It was composed to take place of an old and licentious lyric of the same name; and it has been so successful, that its impure predecessor has wholly disappeared. There was

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