And to beauty's bright standard all heroes must yield, For 'tis beauty that conquers, and wins the fair field. I found this very pleasing song in Allan Ramsay's collection, bearing the mark denoting the author's name unknown. I have some suspicion that it is an English production; but as it has been rejected by Dr. Aikin, and other southern editors, I admit it gladly. Like a borderer of old, whose inheritance was a matter of national contest, it may rank under either the thistle or the rose. These two lines would do honour to any song: I grasp her hands gently, look languishing down, And, by passionate silence, I make my love known. THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. I've seen the smiling And felt her decay: But soon it is fled It is fled far away. I've seen the Forest, Adorned the foremost With flowers of the fairest, I've seen the morning I've seen Tweed's silver streams As they roamed on their way. Oh, fickle Fortune! Why this cruel sporting? Why thus beguile us, Poor sons of a day? Thy frowns cannot fear me, Since the Flowers of the Forest Are a' wede away. This song has found many admirers, and the subject of it has found many poets. It was written by Miss Rutherford, daughter of Rutherford of Fairnalie, in Selkirkshire-no one has ever mentioned it without praise, and no collection is thought complete that wants it. I prefer the song on the same subject by Miss Jane Elliott-nature always surpasses art; yet the union of the two is oftentimes exceedingly graceful and engaging. In har'st, at the shearing, Nae youths now are jeering; And lyart and gray; At e'en, in the gloaming, TeBout stacks, with the lassesAY ELA The Flowers of the Forest Are a' wede away. Dool and wae for the order The English for ance By guile wan the day; The prime of our land Are cauld in the clay. We'll hear nae mair lilting This pathetic song requires neither praise nor comment; its pathos is the pathos of nature, and every heart that feels will understand it. At the period of the battle of Flodden, the Forest of Selkirk extended over part of Ayrshire and the Upper Ward of Clydesdale, and had therefore many warriors to lose on that fatal field. The fate of our gallant James seems yet dubious; but he was lost to his country, whatever became of him: the letters of the Earl of Surrey, edited by Mr. Ellis, throw some further historical light on this fatal fray. The body of the king was never identified; and the conduct of some of the Scottish leaders, during and after the battle, was sufficiently mysterious. We owe this exquisite song to Miss Jane Elliott of Minto. |