IX. DIRGES AND PATHETIC POEMS. "For when sad thoughts possess the mind of man, There is a plummet in the heart that weighs And pulls us living to the dust we came from."-BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. THE NYMPH MOURNING HER FAWN. THE wanton troopers, riding by, Them any harm, alas! nor could And nothing may we use in vain; Even beasts must be with justice slain, Else men are made their deodands. Though they should wash their guilty hands In this warm life-blood which doth part From thine, and wound me to the heart, Yet could they not be clean, their stain Is dyed in such a purple grain. It is a wondrous thing how fleet For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod as if on the four winds. I have a garden of my own, Among the beds of lilies I Have sought it oft, where it should lie, Yet could not, till itself would rise, I was the Queen o' bonnie France, Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, As blythe lay down at e'en: And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, And mony a traitor there; Yet here I lie in foreign bands, And never ending care. But as for thee, thou false woman, My sister and my fae, Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword That through thy soul shall gae: The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee; Nor the balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying e'e. My son! my son! may kinder stars That ne'er wad blink on mine! Remember him for me! He promised me a milk-white steed, To bear me to his father's bowers; He promised me a little page, To squire me to his father's towers; He promised me a wedding-ringThe wedding-day was fixed to morrow: Now he is wedded to his grave, Alas, his watery grave in Yarrow! His mother from the window looked, They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough; They only saw the cloud of night, They only heard the roar of Yarrow. No longer from the window look; Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! No longer walk, thou lovely maid; Alas! thou hast no more a brother! No longer seek him east or west, No longer search the forest thorough; For wandering in the night so dark, He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow. JOHN LOGAN. THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. WHEN spring, to woods and wastes around, Brought bloom and joy again, The murdered traveller's bones were found, Far down a narrow glen. The fragrant birch above him hung The red-bird warbled as he wrought His hanging nest o'erhead, But there was weeping far away; |