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Just then she reached, with trembling I feel, I feel this breaking heart

step,

Her aged mother's door :

He's gone! she cried, and I shall see That angel-face no more.

Beat high against my side!

From her white arm down sunk her head

She shivering, sighed, and died.

WILLIAM HAMILTON.

1704-1754.

THE tragic love ballad is a characteristic production of the times at which we have now arrived, and the "Braes of Yarrow" is an excellent specimen of the class; but with special features of its own. Its author, William Hamilton of Bangour, was born in 1704. He was descended from an ancient Ayrshire family; and mixed in the highest social circles of Edinburgh society, where his poetical accomplishments (he can hardly be described as a poetical genius) made him a favourite. He was also one of the band of young gentlemen who assisted Allan Ramsay with his Tea-Table Miscellany.

Attracted by the romance of the enterprise, he joined the standard of the young Pretender on the breaking out of the Rebellion of 1745-6, and became the laureate of the expedition. After its collapse, he escaped to France, and, having influential friends on the royal side, was more fortunate in obtaining an early pardon, and the restoration of his estate, than most of his compatriots. He was of a delicate constitu

tion, and his health having given way he returned to France, whose warmer climate was better adapted to his enfeebled frame; yet even here he did not long survive, for he died at Lyons in 1754, in his fiftieth year.

An imperfect edition of his poems was published in Glasgow, in 1748, by an unknown editor, and it was not till 1760 that a correct edition was printed from his own manuscripts.

His style, while very correct as regards the purity of its English, is too ornate and fanciful to give that impression of real passion and spontaneity without which amatory lyric poetry is mere affectation. His "Braes of Yarrow" is the only production of his in which, with some exceptional conceits, the directness and simplicity proper to this style of composition is preserved. Wordsworth had it in view in the composition of his poems on the Yarrow.

An edition of Hamilton's poems was published in 1850, edited by James Paterson, the author of several books connected with Ayrshire.

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Just then she reached, with trembling I feel, I feel this breaking heart

step,

Her aged mother's door :

He's gone! she cried, and I shall see That angel-face no more.

Beat high against my side!

From her white arm down sunk her head

She shivering, sighed, and died.

WILLIAM HAMILTON.

1704-1754.

THE tragic love ballad is a characteristic production of the times at which we have now arrived, and the "Braes of Yarrow" is an excellent specimen of the class; but with special features of its own. Its author, William Hamilton of Bangour, was born in 1704. He was descended from an ancient Ayrshire family; and mixed in the highest social circles of Edinburgh society, where his poetical accomplishments (he can hardly be described as a poetical genius) made him a favourite. He was also one of the band of young gentlemen who assisted Allan Ramsay with his Tea-Table Miscellany.

Attracted by the romance of the enterprise, he joined the standard of the young Pretender on the breaking out of the Rebellion of 1745-6, and became the laureate of the expedition. After its collapse, he escaped to France, and, having influential friends on the royal side, was more fortunate in obtaining an early pardon, and the restoration of his estate, than most of his compatriots. He was of a delicate constitu

tion, and his health having given way he returned to France, whose warmer climate was better adapted to his enfeebled frame; yet even here he did not long survive, for he died at Lyons in 1754, in his fiftieth year.

An imperfect edition of his poems was published in Glasgow, in 1748, by an unknown editor, and it was not till 1760 that a correct edition was printed from his own manuscripts.

His style, while very correct as regards the purity of its English, is too ornate and fanciful to give that impression of real passion and spontaneity without which amatory lyric poetry is mere affectation. His "Braes of Yarrow" is the only production of his in which, with some exceptional conceits, the directness and simplicity proper to this style of composition is preserved. Wordsworth had it in view in the composition of his poems on the Yarrow.

An edition of Hamilton's poems was published in 1850, edited by James Paterson, the author of several books connected with Ayrshire.

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IX.

Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny Wash, oh wash his wounds his wounds in

bride,

Weep not, weep not, my winsome

marrow!

Nor let thy heart lament to leave

Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

IV.

Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride?

tears,

His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow, And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.

X.

Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad,

Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow,

Why does she weep, thy winsome And weep around in waeful wise,

marrow?

And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen, Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow?

V.

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

Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

VI.

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 poued birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.

XI.

Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield,

Myarm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierced his breast, His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow.

XII.

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.

XIII.

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green

grows the grass,

Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan,

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XXVI.

The boy put on his robes, his robes of But who the expected husband husband is?

green,

His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewing, Ah! wretched me! I little little kenned He was in these to meet his ruin.

XX.

The boy took out his milk-white milk

white steed,

Unheedful of my dule and sorrow,

His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter,

Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,

Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after?

XXVII.

Pale as he is, here lay him lay him down, O lay his cold head on my pillow;

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