Joy have I had; and going hence
I bear away my recompence.

In spots like these it is we prize
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes;
Then, why should I be loth to stir?
I feel this place was made for her;
To give new pleasure like the past,
Continued long as life shall last.

Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;
For I, methinks, till I grow old,
As fair before me shall behold,
As I do now, the cabin small,
The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
And Thee, the Spirit of them all!

(1803.)

THE SOLITARY REAPER.

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself';
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt
Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from a Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending ;-
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

(1803.)

YARROW UNVISITED. 1803.

[See the various poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite ballad of Hamilton, beginning—

'Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride,

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow!']

From Stirling's castle we had seen

The mazy Forth unravelled;

Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my 'winsome Marrow,'
'Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow.'

'Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own;
Each maiden to her dwelling!

On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!

But we will downwards with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

'There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;

And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus ;

There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow:
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?

'What's Yarrow but a river bare,
That glides the dark hills under?

There are a thousand such elsewhere

As worthy of your wonder.'

-Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;

My True-love sighed for sorrow;

And looked me in the face, to think

I thus could speak of Yarrow !

'Oh! green,' said I, 'are Yarrow's holms,

And sweet is Yarrow flowing!

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock1,

But we will leave it growing.

O'er hilly path, and open strath,

We'll wander Scotland thorough;

But, though so near, we will not turn

Into the dale of Yarrow.

'Let beeves and home-bred kine partake

The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake
Float double, swan and shadow !
We will not see them; will not go
To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
Enough if in our hearts we know
There's such a place as Yarrow.

1 See Hamilton's ballad, as above.

'Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! It must, or we shall rue it;

We have a vision of our own;

Ah! why should we undo it?

The treasured dreams of times long past,
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow !
For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
'Twill be another Yarrow !

'If Care with freezing years should come, And wandering seem but folly,—

Should we be loath to stir from home,

And yet be melancholy;

Should life be dull, and spirits low,

"Twill soothe us in our sorrow,

That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny holms of Yarrow.'

TO THE CUCKOO.

O blithe New-comer! I have heard,

I hear thee and rejoice.

O Cuckoo shall I call thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass

Thy twofold shout I hear,

From hill to hill it seems to pass,

At once far off, and near.

Though babbling only to the Vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers,

Thou bringest unto me a tale

Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

Even yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry

Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet;

Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget

That golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, faery place :

That is fit home for Thee!

(1804.)

AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS. 1803.

(Seven Years after his Death.)

I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold,

At thought of what I now behold:

As vapours breathed from dungeons cold
Strike pleasure dead,

So sadness comes from out the mould
Where Burns is laid.

And have I then thy bones so near,
And thou forbidden to appear?

As if it were thyself that's here
I shrink with pain;

And both my wishes and my fear
Alike are vain.