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At e'en, in the gloaming,

Nae younkers are roaming 1?'Bout stacks, with the lasses. S'

At bogle to play;
But ilk maid sits eerie,
Lamenting her deary-
The Flowers of the Forest

Are a' wede away.

Dool and wae for the order
Sent our lads to the border !
The English for ance

By guile wan the day;
The Flowers of the Forest
That fought ay the foremost,
The prime of our land

Are cauld in the clay.

We'll hear nae mair lilting
At the ewe-milking,

Women and bairns are

Heartless and wae ;
Sighing and moaning
In ilka green loaning,
The Flowers of the Forest

Are a' wede away.

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.


At Polwart on the green

If you'll meet me the morn, i
Where lasses do convene

To dance about the thorn,
A kindly welcome you shall meet

Frae her wha likes to view
A lover and a lad complete,

The lad and lover you.

Let dorty dames say na,

As lang as e'er they please; Seem caulder than the sna',

While inwardly they bleeze: But I will frankly shaw my mind,

And yield my heart to thee ; Be ever to the captive kind,

That langs nae to be free.

At Polwart on the green,

Amang the new-mawn hay, With sangs and dancing keen

We'll pass the heartsome day. At night, if beds be o'er thrang laid,

And thou be twinn'd of thine, Thou shalt be welcome, my dear lad,

To take a part of mine.

Polwarth on the Green deserves a much better song: yet unimportant as the words are, they have been claimed for two different names of very different reputation. Burns

the author is John Drummond Macgregor, of the family of Bochaldie. Who informed the poet of this, it is now impossible to discover ; but the verses have generally been imputed to Allan Ramsay, and are such as he might have written at an unexpected call to fill up some chasm in his collection. Allan wasi no scrupulous person, and his reputation could afford such drawbacks as a hasty verse might require. Such dancings on the green, and round about the thorn, have perhaps wholly ceased in Scotland since the Reformation, which silenced much of our mirth: they are still com-r mon in many places in England. I confess that the last four lines of the song seem to belong to some other poet than the author of their companions, and perhaps to ana older time. This is only conjecture, and as such let itA go.-Ramsay has printed the first four lines and the last four in italics, probably to denote greater antiquity than the rest of the song.



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My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook,
And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook :
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove;
Ambition, I said, would soon eure me of love.
But what had my youth with ambition to do?
Why left I Amynta, why broke I my vow?

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Through regions remote in vain do I rove,
And bid the wide world secure me from love.
Ah, fool I to imagine that aught could subdue
A tove so well founded, a passion so true!
Ah, give me my sheep, and my sheep-book restore,' -...?
And I wander from love and Amynta no more!in.

Alas, 'tis too late at thy 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.
Ah, what had my youth with ambition to do?
Why left I Amynta, why broke I my vow?

Sir Gilbert Elliot, ancestor of the present Lord Minto, was the author of this very beautiful pastoral ; .



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