III.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae ;

The meanest hind in fair Scotland

May rove their sweets amang ; But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison strang!

IV.

I was the Queen o' bonnie France,
Where happy I hae been;

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.

V.

But as for thee, thou false woman!

My sister and my fae,

Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword

That thro' thy soul shall gae!

The weeping blood in woman's breast

Was never known to thee;

Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying e'e.

VOL. III,

VI.

My son! my son! may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine;

And may those pleasures gild thy reign,
That ne'er wad blink on mine!

God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,

Or turn their hearts to thee:

And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,
Remember him for me!

VII.

O! soon, to me, may summer-suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds
Wave o'er the yellow corn!

And in the narrow house o' death

Let winter round me rave;

And the next flow'rs that deck the spring
Bloom on my peaceful grave!

The Lady Winifred Maxwell Constable, it is said, expressed a wish for a poem on the woes of Queen Mary; and Burns, touched with the pathos of Lord Maxwell's "Good-Night," composed the " Queen Mary's Lament” with his thoughts on that fine ballad. He has caught the olden air and tone rather than imitated the sentiments :

"Adieu, madame, my mother dear,

But and my sisters three!

Adieu, fair Robert of Orchardstane,
My heart is wae for thee.
Adieu, the lily and the rose,
The primrose fair to see;
Adieu, my lady and only joy!

For I may not stay with thee.

Adieu! Dumfries, my proper place,

But and Carlaverock fair!
Adieu, my castle o' the Thrieve,
Wi' a' my buildings there;
Adieu, Lochmaben's gate sae fair,

And Langholme-holm where birks there be;
Adieu, my ladye and only joy!

For trust me I may not stay with thee."

The Poet was well pleased, it seems, with his performance.- Whether it is," he says to Graham of Fintray, "that the story of our Mary Queen of Scots has a peculiar effect on the feelings of a poet, or whether I have, in the enclosed ballad, succeeded beyond my usual poetic success, I know not, but it has pleased me beyond any effort of my muse for a good while past." The poem was praised by Lady Winifred, and rewarded by a present of a valuable snuff-box, with the portrait of Queen Mary on the lid. When he visited Terreagles house, he was shown the bed in which that princess slumbered during one troubled night-an original letter from Charles I., requesting the Earl of Nithsdale to arm and join him in England—and the account written by the Countess of Nithsdale of the last Earl's escape from the Tower in 1715.

Grahame, in his drama of Mary Stewart, loves to dwell on the merits as well as the beauty of this unfortunate queen :

ELIZABETH. And does she touch the harp with equal skill? MELVIL. The chords, though struck with careless sweep, speak love,

Like Cupid's wing along Apollo's lyre;

And with the notes so sweet is blent her voice

In magic harmony, that none may know

Which is the voice, and which the silver string.
ELIZABETH. Good-good; that she excels

In each external grace we know ;-but tell me,

Is she much versed in languages?

MELVIL. She speaks the tongues of Scotland and of France,

With equal grace; Italia's is her sport;

Each dialect her people use she knows;

And to the humblest she so suits her phrase,

That rustic maids, at first abashed, look up,

Thinking they hear a sister cottager.

THE WHISTLE.

I SING of a whistle, a whistle of worth
I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North,
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king,
And long with this whistle all Scotland shall ring.

Old Loda,* still rueing the arm of Fingal,

The god of the bottle sends down from his hall— "This whistle's your challenge-to Scotland get o'er, "And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more!"

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell;
The son of great Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill.

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war,
He drank his poor godship as deep as the sea,
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.

* See Ossian's Caric-thura.

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd;
Which now in his house has for ages remain'd;
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial contest again have renew'd..

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw;
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law;
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins ;
And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,
And once more, in claret, try which was the man.

"By the gods of the ancients!" Glenriddel replies, "Before I surrender so glorious a prize, I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,* And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er."

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend,
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe-or his friend,
Said, toss down the whistle, the prize of the field,
And knee-deep in claret, he'd die, or he'd yield.

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;

*See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides.