Robert Crawford.

About
Drowned 1733.

1700.

AUTHOR of "Tweedside," and "The Bush aboon Traquair." He assisted Allan Ramsay in his "Tea Table Miscellany." He was drowned on his return from France in 1733.

THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR.

HEAR me, ye nymphs, and every swain,
I'll tell how Peggy grieves me;
Though thus I languish and complain,
Alas! she ne'er believes me.
My vows and sighs, like silent air,
Unheeded, never move her;
At the bonny Bush aboon Traquair,
'Twas there I first did love her.

That day she smiled and made me glad,
No maid seemed ever kinder;
I thought myself the luckiest lad,
So sweetly there to find her;
I tried to soothe my amorous flame,
In words that I thought tender;
If more there passed, I'm not to blame--
I meant not to offend her.

Yet now she scornful flees the plain,
The fields we then frequented;
If e'er we meet she shews disdain,
She looks as ne'er acquainted.
The bonny bush bloomed fair in May,
Its sweets I'll aye remember;
But now her frowns make it decay-
It fades as in December.

Ye rural powers, who hear my strains,
Why thus should Peggy grieve me?
O make her partner in my pains,
Then let her smiles relieve me:
If not, my love will turn despair,
My passion no more tender;
I'll leave the Bush aboon Traquair-
To lonely wilds I'll wander.

Philip Doddridge.

Born 1702.

His

A CELEBRATED English divine, born in London, 26th June 1702. father was a clergyman in the English Church, but died while he was only thirteen. Doddridge, from conscientious motives, joined the Nonconformists; he soon became one of their most popular ministers, and in 1729 he was settled at Northampton. He is the author of many hymns, which are to be found in almost every collection of sacred poetry. He died on 26th October 1751.

SELF-DEDICATION REVIEWED.

O HAPPY day that fix'd my choice
On Thee, my Saviour and my God!
Well may this glowing heart rejoice,
And tell its raptures all abroad.
'Tis done, the great transaction's done!
I am my Lord's, and He is mine;
He drew me, and I follow'd on,

Charm'd to confess the voice divine.

Now rest my long-divided heart,
Fix'd on this blissful centre, rest:

Nor ever from thy Lord depart,
With Him of every good possess'd.

High Heav'n, that heard the solemn vow,
That vow renew'd shall daily hear;

Till in life's latest hour I bow,
And bless in death a bond so dear.

THE HEAVENLY SABBATH.

LORD of the Sabbath! hear us pray,
In this thy house, on this thy day;
Accept as grateful sacrifice,

The songs which from thy people rise.

Thine earthly Sabbaths, Lord! we love;
But there's a nobler rest above;
To that our lab'ring souls aspire,
With ardent hope and strong desire.

P

In thy bless'd kingdom we shall be
From every care and trouble free;
No sighs shall mingle with the songs
Resounding from immortal tongues.
No rude alarms of raging foes,
No cares to break the long repose,
No clouded sun, no changeful moon,
But sacred, high, eternal noon.

Lord of the Sabbath! hear us pray,
In this thy house, on this thy day;
Soon shall we leave this weary road,
To sleep in death, and rest in God.

William Hamilton.

Born 1704

Died 1754.

WILLIAM HAMILTON of Bangour, in Ayrshire, a Scottish gentleman of rank, became early distinguished for his poetical talents, and was the delight of the gay circles in his own country. He joined the standard of Prince Charles, and became the laureate of the Jacobites. After Culloden he narrowly escaped to France; but obtaining a pardon he returned to his paternal estate. He is the author of the beautiful ballad "The Braes of Yarrow."

BRAES OF YARROW.

A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride;
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow !
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride,
And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.
B. Where gat ye that bonny, bonny bride?
Where gat ye that winsome marrow?
A. I gat her where I darena weel be seen,
Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Weep not, weep not, my bonny, bonny bride?
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow !
Nor let thy heart lament to leave

Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

B. Why does she weep, thy bonny, bonny bride?
Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow ?

And why dare ye nae mair weel be seen,

Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,
Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow,
And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen

Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
For she has tint her lover, lover dear,
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow,
And I hae slain the comeliest swain

That e'er pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red?
Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow?
And why yon melancholious weeds

Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow?

What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flude?
What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow!
'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 flowin'.

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 well 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.

C. 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 Yarrow.
O Yarrow fields! may never, never rain,
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, 'twas my ain sewing.
Ah! wretched me! I little, little ken'd
He was in these to meet his ruin.

The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed,
Unheedful of my dule and sorrow,

But ere the to-fall of the night,

He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

He was a

AUTHOR of a large portion of the Methodist Hymn Book. poet very early in life, and when his genius became sanctified by his conversion, he devoted much of his valuable time to supply a want then greatly felt, hymns for public worship. They were edited and published by his brother John, the founder of Methodism, himself also a poet. Charles Wesley also left a number of beautiful pieces written on incidents in his own life.

CHRIST THE ONLY REFUGE.

JESUS, Lover of my soul!

Let me to thy bosom fly,

While the raging billows roll,

While the tempest still is high!