A FABLE.

OLD TIME and PLEASURE, on a day,
Once met, as they did walk,

'Dear TIME!' says PLEASURE, 'prithee, stay! Let's have some friendly talk!'

'Alluring Fair!' said he, 'I know
The World are slaves to thee!
Upon thee, ev'ry thought bestow;
And make no store of me!

'My destined race I still pursue;
Nor can one moment stay,

Lest those blind crowds that follow you,
O'ertake me on my way.'

Then swift along the plain he ran;

While loitering PLEASURE stood, To intercept the view of Man, Enticing all she could.

Some few, indeed, kept up with TIME,
That her temptations shun;

But such as with gay PLEASURE chime,
Delay, and are undone!

Charlotte Sophia, Queen Consort of George III.

VERSES

HANDED ABOUT, AS THE PRODUCTION OF

HER PRESENT MAJESTY.

'GENTEEL is my DAMON, engaging his Air!
His face, like the morn, is both ruddy and fair!
Soft Love sits enthroned in the beam of his eyes!
He's manly, yet tender! He's fond, and yet wise!

and gay!

'He's ever good-humoured! He's generous
His presence can always drive Sorrow away!
No vanity sways him, no folly is seen;
But open his temper, and noble his mien.

'By virtue illumined his actions appear!
His Passions are calm, and his reason is clear
An affable sweetness attends on his speech!
He is willing to learn, though he 's able to teach!

'He has promised to love me! His word I'll believe; For his heart is too honest to let him deceive! Then blame me, ye Fair Ones! if justly ye can; Since the picture I've drawn is exactly the Man!'

My sheep I neglected, I lost my sheep-hook;
And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook.
No more for AMYNTA fresh garlands I wove,
'For Ambition,' I said, 'would soon cure my love!'
O, what had my youth with Ambition to do?
Why left I AMYNTA? Why broke I my vow?

Through regions remote in vain do I rove,
And bid the wide ocean secure me from love.
O, fool! to imagine that aught can subdue
A love so well founded! a Passion so true!
O, give me my sheep; and my sheep-hook restore!
I'll wander from love and AMYNTA no more!

Alas! 'Tis too late, at my fate to repine!
Poor Shepherd! AMYNTA no more can be thine!
Thy tears are all fruitless! Thy wishes are vain!
The moments neglected return not again!

O, what had my youth with Ambition to do?
Why left I AMYNTA? Why broke I my vow?

JANE ELLIOT.

FLODDEN FIELD

OR

FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.

I've heard of a lilting, at our ewes' milking,
Lasses a' lilting before the break of day;
But now there 's moaning on ilka green loaning,
That our braw Foresters are a' wede away.

At bughts, in the morning, nae blyth Lads are scorning. The Lasses are lonely, dowie, and wae:

Nae daffin, nae gabbin; but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away.

At e'en, at the gloming, nae Swankies are roaming 'Mong stacks, with the Lasses at bogle to play; But ilk ane sits dreary, lamenting her deary,

The Flowers of the Forest that are wede away.

At Har'st, at the Shearing, nae Younkers are jearing.
The bansters are runkled, lyart, and grey.
At a Fair, or a Preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching,
Since our braw Foresters are a' wede away.

O, dool for the order, sent our Lads to the Border!
The English for ance, by guile, gat the day:
The Flower of the Forest, that ay shone the foremost,
The prime of our land lyes cauld in the clay.

We'll hear nae mair lilting at our ewes' milking!
The women and bairns are dowie and wae,

Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning,
Since our braw Foresters are a' wede away.

FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.

I'VE seen the smiling

Of Fortune beguiling!

I've felt all its favours; and found its decay!
Sweet was its blessing,

Kind, its caressing ;

But now, 'tis fled-fled far away!

I've seen the Forest

Adorned the foremost

With flowers of the fairest, most pleasant and gay; Sae bonny was their blooming,

Their scent the air perfuming;

But now they are withered and weeded away!

I've seen the morning,

With gold the hills adorning;

And loud tempest storming before the midday! I've seen Tweed's silver streams

Shining in the sunny beams,

Grow drumbly and dark, as he rowed on his way!

O, fickle Fortune!

Why this cruel sporting?

O, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day?
Nae mair your smiles can chear me!

Nae mair your frowns can fear me!
For the Flowers of the Forest are withered away!