'Tis he, the comely swain I slew Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.

Wash, O, wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,

His wounds in tears with dule and

sorrow,

And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.

Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad,

Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, And weep around in waeful wise,

His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.

Curse ye, curse ye his useless useless shield,

My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierced his breast, His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow.

Did I not warn thee not to lo'e,

And warn from fight, but to my sorrow; O'er rashly bauld a stronger arm

Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of
Yarrow.

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass,

Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,

As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, As sweet smells on its braes the birk,

The apple frae the rock as mellow.

Fair was thy love, fair fair indeed thy love,

In flowery bands thou him didst fetter; Though he was fair and weil beloved again, Than me he never lo'ed thee better.

Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride,

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow! Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed,

And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

"How can I busk a bonny bonny bride,

How can I busk a winsome marrow, How lo'e him on the banks of Tweed, That slew my love on the Braes of Yar row ?

Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, For there was basely slain my love, My love, as he had not been a lover.

"The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,

His purple vest, 't was my ain sewing; Ah! wretched me! I little little kenned He was in these to meet his ruin.

And crown my careful head with willow.

"Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved,

O, could my warmth to life restore thee! Ye'd lie all night between my breasts, No youth lay ever there before thee.

"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 naught of thy sighs, He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

ISAAC WATTS.

[1674-1748.]

THE HEAVENLY LAND. THERE is a land of pure delight,

Where saints immortal reign; Infinite day excludes the night, And pleasures banish pain.

There everlasting spring abides,

And never-withering flowers;
Death, like a narrow sea, divides

This heavenly land from ours.
Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood
Stand dressed in living green;
So to the Jews old Canaan stood,

While Jordan rolled between.
But timorous mortals start and shrink
To cross this narrow sea,
And linger shivering on the brink,
And fear to launch away.

O, could we make our doubts remove,
These gloomy doubts that rise,
And see the Canaan that we love
With unbeclouded eyes, -

Could we but climb where Moses stood,
And view the landscape o'er,

Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold flood,

Should fright us from the shore.

For never title yet so mean could

prove,

But there was eke a mind which did that title love.

One ancient hen she took delight to feed,

The plodding pattern of the busy dame; Which, ever and anon, impelled by need,

Into her school, begirt with chickens, came !

Such favor did her past deportment claim :

And, if Neglect had lavished on the ground

Fragment of bread, she would collect the same;

For well she knew, and quaintly could expound,

What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found.

Herbs too she knew, and well of each could speak

That in her garden sipped the silvery dew;

Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy streak;

But herbs for use, and physic, not a few,

Of gray renown, within those borders