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Flow's Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,
As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,
55 The apple fraé its rock as mellow.
Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve,
In flow'ry bands thou didft him fetter;
Than me he never luy'd thee better.
Bulk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny bride,
Bulk ye, bukk ye, my winsome marrow, Bulk ye, and luve me on the banks of Tweed,
And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.
C. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride? 65
How can I busk a winsome marrow ? How luve him upon the banks of Tweed,
That slew my luve on the Braes of Yarrow?
O Yarrrow fie!ds, may never never rain,
Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, For there was barely slain my luve,
My love, as he had not been a lover.
The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,
His purple veit, 'twas my awn sewing: Ah! wretched me! I little, little kenn'd 75 He was in these to meet his ruin.
The boy took out liis milk-white, milk-white steed,
Unheedful of my dule and sorrow : But ere the toofall of the night
He lay a corps on the Braes of Yarrow, 80
Much I rejoyc'd that waeful waeful day;
I sang, my voice the woods returning: But lang ere night the spear was flown,
That few my luve, and left me mourning.
What can my barbarous barbarous father do, 85 •
But with his cruel rage pursue me? My luver's blood is on thy spear,
How canst thou, barbarous man, then wooe me?
My happy lifters may be, may be proud
With cruel, and ungentle scoihin, May bid me seek on Yarrow's Braes
My luver nailed in his coffin.
My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid,
And ftrive with threatning words to muve me: My luver's blood is on thy spear,
95 How canit thou ever bid me luve thee?
Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve,
With bridal meets my body cover, Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,
Let in the expected husband lover,
But who the expected husband husband is?
His hands, methinks, are bath'd in Naughter: Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon
Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after?
Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down,
Olay his cold head on my pillow;
And crown my careful head with willow,
Pale tho' thou art, yet best, yet best beluv'd,
O could my warmth to life restore thee!
No youth lay ever there before thee.
Pale, pale indeed, O luvely luvely youth,
Forgive, forgive so foul a flaughter,
No youth Mall erer lye there after.
A Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride,
Return and dry thy useless forrow:
He lycs a corps in the Braes of Yarrow.
-was a Party Song written by the ingenious author of LEONIDAS *, on the taking of Porto Bello from the Spaniards by Almiral Vernon, Nov. 22, 1739. The case of Hifier, which is here fo pathetically reprefented, was briefly this. In April, 1726, that commander was sent with a Atrong fest into the Spanish Weft-Indies, to block up the gal. leons in the ports of that country, or should they presume to come out, to seize and carry them into England: he accordingly arrived at the Bastimentos near Porto Bello, but being em. ployed rather to overawe than to attack the Spaniards, with whom it was probably not our interest to go to war, he coiltinued long inactive on that station, to his ozun great regret. Hle afterwari's removed to Carthagena, and remained cruizing in these Jeas, till far the greater part of his men perifbed deplorably by the diseases of that unhealthy climate. This brave man. seeing his best officers and men thus daily fwept artay, bis lhips expofed to inevitable deftruction, and himself made the sport of the enemy, is said to have died of a broken heart. Such is the account of Smollett, com• pared with that of other lefs partial writers.
The following song is commonly accompanied with a Second Part, or Answer, which being of inferior merit, and ap. parcitly written by another hand, hath been rejected.
S near Porto-Bello lying
On the gently swelling flood,
Our triumphant navy rode;
* An ingenious Correspondent informs the Editor, that ibis Balled bib been also ottributed to the late Lordi Bath.
There while Vernon fate all-glorious
From the Spaniards' late defeat:
Drank success to England's feet:
On a sudden sırilly sounding,
Hideous yells and shrieks were heard ;
A sad troop of ghosts appear'd,
Which for winding-sheets they wore,
Frowning on that hostile shore.
On them gleam'd the moon's wan lustre,
When the shade of Hosier brave
Riling from their watry grave.
Where the Burford * rear'd her fail,
And in groans did Vernon hail.
Heed, oh heed our fatal story,
I am Hofier's injur'd ghoft,
At this place where I was lost!
* Admiral Vernon's skipo