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And broken with sighs, now for ever must be
The once tuneful voice of the maid of Trallee.

Fair Ellen, sweet Ellen, fair Ellen O'Reily,
Fair Ellen, the maid of Trallee.

XLI.

I COME IN THE MORN*.

Flora's Song.

I come in the morn, I come in the hour

When the blossoms of beauty rise ;
I gather the fairest and richest flower,
Where heaven's dew purest lies.

Then rest thee, Bride,

In thy beauty's pride
Thou wilt rest to-night by Flora's side.

*. For the better understanding of this song, it may be necessary to remark, that the Western Islanders entertain a tradition, that, previous to the death of any young and remarkably beautiful bride among them, an apparition, resembling a mermaid, is always observed. This phantom they distin. guish by the name of Flora, or the spirit of the green isle, and concur in affirming that it made its appearance immediately before the death of the late much-lamented Princess Charlotte of Wales. Whatever credit may be due to the assertion, or even to the fancy on which it is founded, the song itself possesses considerable merit, and is not unworthy the mournful occasion which

The eye I touch must be soft and blue

As the sky where the stars are gleaming,
And the breast must be fair as the fleecy clouds

Where the angels of bliss lie dreaming,
And the spirit within as pure and bright

As the stream that leaps among tufts of roses,
And sparkles along all life and light,
Then calm in its open bed reposes.

Ah! rest thee, Bride,

By thy true-love's side,
To-morrow a shroud his hope shall hide.

it is meant to commemorate. The following stanzas, which we have placed under the note, are, in the original, prefixed to the song, and serve very properly as a useful introduction, by solemnizing our minds for the mournful dirge.

A voice said from the silver sea,
6. Woe to thee, Green Isle !-woe to thee !”.
The Warden from his watch-tow'r bent,
But land, and wave, and firmament,
So calmly slept, he might have heard
The swift wing of the mountain bird
Nor breeze nor breath his beacon stirr'd ;,

Yet from th’unfathom'd caves below,
Thrice came that drear, death-boding word,

And the long echoes answer'd, “ WOE!"

The Warden from his tow'r looks round,

And now he hears the slow waves bringing,
Each to the shore a silver sound,

The spirit of the Isle is singing.--
In depths which man hath never found !

When she sits in the pomp of her ocean-bed,
With her scarf of light around her spread,
The mariner thinks on the misty tide,
He sees the moon's soft rainbow glide :
Her song in the noon of night he hears,
And trembles while his bark he stetrs,

I saw them wreathing a crown for thee,

With riches of empire in it,
And thy bridal robe was a winding sheet,

And the Loves that crown'd thee sat to spin ito They heap'd with garlands thy purple bed,

And every flower on earth they found thee, But every flower in the wreath shall fade, Save those thy bounty scatter'd round thee,

Yet sweetly sleep,

While my hour I keep,
For angels, to-night, shall watch and weep.

0, Green Isle !-woe to thy hope and pride!

To-day thy rose was bright and glowing ; The bud was full, the root was wide,

And the streams of love around it flowing ;To-morrow thy tower shall stand alone,

Thy hoary oak shall live and flourish;
But the dove from its branches shall be gone.

The rose that deck'd its stem shall perish.

XLII.

ON PARTING.

The kiss, dear maid, thy lip has left,

Shall never part from mine, Till happier hours restore the gift

Untainted back to thine.

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,

An equal love may see: The tear that from thine eyelid streams,

Can weep no change in me.

I ask no pledge to make me blest,

In gazing when alone;
Nor one memorial for a breast,

Whose thoughts are all thine own.

Nor need I write-to tell the tale,

My pen were doubly weak : Oh! what can idle words avail,

Unless the heart could speak.

By day or night, in weal or woe,

That heart, no longer free,
Must bear the love it cannot show,

And silent ache for thee.

XLIII.

IN SUMMER, WHEN THE HAY WAS MAWN.

In summer, when the hay was mawn,

And corn wav'd green in ilka field,
While clover blooms white o'er the least

And roses blaw in ilka bield;
Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel',

Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will;
Out spak a dame in wrinkld eil',

O'gude advisement comes nae ill.

'Tis ye hae wooers mony a ane,

And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken,
Then wait a wee, and canny wale

A routhie but, a routhie ben:
There's Johnnie o' the Busky Glen,

Fu' is his barn, fu’ is his byre ;
Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen,

'Tis plenty beets the lover's fire.

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