ELEGIAC BALLAD.

"Where are ye now, ye false flattering joys,
Ye prospects of pleasures unknown?

Like my false love, ye faithless have left me to weep,
And with him ye to Clara have flown.

"Ah! do not believe them, thou rash, rash maid,
Or farewell thy composure of mind;

They may charm for a little, but beware, ah! beware,
Of a poison that festers behind.

66

Look, look but on me-nay, nay, never fear,

I'm a rival you scarcely can dread;

No roses now bloom on this pale lily cheek,

66

Nor is mine the fair flock that I fed.

Look, look yet again, and tell unto me—
And ah! see it be truth that you tell-

31

Can your fondness secure you the false wand'ring swain,
When I'm thus but for loving too well?

"Away, haste away, ye slow, slow hours,

And be dipped, O yon sun in the sea-
Ah me! but I rave, for the time is no more
When the evening brought comfort to me.

"Sad, ever sad!—is there no kind cure,
Not a balsam provided for woe?

Oh, tell me, some angel! in what happy clime
Does the precious remedy grow?

"Kindly remembered, thou fire-clad sprite-
It is there, it is certainly there;

And soon will I seek, in the cold darksome grave,
For a balsam to love and despair!"

From "Poems by James Græme," published in 1773 by W. Somerville, Lanark. Græme was the fellow-student and early friend of Dr. Anderson of Edinburgh. He died on the 26th of July, 1772, at the early age of 21. Dr. Anderson superintended the original edition, and likewise included his friend's works, in his edition of the British Poets. There is good reason to believe that the doctor himself was the author of this

ballad. He states in the preface that there are a few pieces by a different writer, which the ingenious reader would easily distinguish, from the difference of style and subject, from the rest of the volume, and from this statement, we believe this to be the doctor's own juvenile performance.

It is said by tradition, that the heroine of the ballad was Miss Elizabeth Kello, daughter of a very worthy man, who bore the singular sobriquet of "Gospel Johnnie," a Carnwath David Deans in his way. Johnnie had once the misfortune to lose a cow, and so much was he esteemed by young Count Lockhart, that he saved as much from his pocket money while a minor, as bought another cow for Johnnie. The lovely and faithless young man, we are happy to say, was not so bad as represented in the text; he was gamekeeper on the Carnwath estate, and made the love-lorn damsel a happy wife. One of their sons, who bore his father's name (George Ramsay), was for several years sub-editor of the Scotsman. Dr. Anderson was the early friend of Thomas Campbell. The first edition of "The Pleasures of Hope" was inscribed to Dr. Anderson.

LINES,

BY GEORGE RAMSAY OF CARNWATH, ON SEEING TOMBSTONES STANDING IN THE MIDST OF A FLOWER GARDEN AT CASTLE CRAIG, THE SEAT OF SIR THOMAS G. CARMICHAEL, BART., IN THE PARISH OF KIRKURD, PEEBLESSHIRE.

OH! who could have deemed, that those gay smelling flowers,
To the bones of the dead were a covering;

That bodies lay festering, under these bowers,
Or spirits around them were hovering.

For no narrow bed, with its green, grassy mound,
Is seen round their bones to be swelling,

Yet the grey tombstones, that are scattered around,
Are the bounds of a cemetery telling.

And so lowly and still is this place of the dead,
So holy, so soothing to feeling,

So charming the pall that has o'er it been spread,
No gloom to the heart can be stealing.

Oh! then can these flowers, as in mockery bloom,
O'er the bodies that 'neath them are lying?

Or can they in spirit thus encircle the tomb,
As if life with corruption was vying?

ON SEEING TOMBSTONES IN A FLOWER GARDEN. 33

No, though to the mouldering dwellers beneath,

They vainly their fragrance are giving—

They were placed o'er their graves, sweetest incense to breathe, By the kind, pious hand of the living.

And here in this flower bed, and meet is the place,
In this flower bed so gay and imposing,

The once faithful swain, and the maid of his choice,
Perhaps are together reposing.

Perhaps in this spot lie the bridegroom and bride,
Who in life were so dear to each other;
The brother and sister may sleep side by side,
The babe on the breast of its mother.

So lovely their beds who that o'er them e'er tread
Could think of their fate to be weeping;
Or who ever mused o'er their flower spangled bed
But envied the depth of their sleeping.

May mine be the spot when o'er my dark grave
The roses I cherished when living,

The flowers that I loved all their beauties may crave,
And all their sweet perfume be giving.

May such be the spot, in some flowery dell, where
The larks from its turf may be springing,
Where the blackbird and mavis may love to repair
The dirge of my rest to be singing.

Oh! not in the dark, dripping tomb be my bed,
Its breath all of verdure consuming,

But give me green tendrils, to wave o'er my head,
O'er my breast let the daisy be blooming.

CHANGE.

WE mark it in the fleecy clouds
That ghost-like wander by;
The brightest flower has but its hour,
To bud, to bloom, and die;
'Tis read in old familiar things,
As in the new and strange,
Where'er we go, whate'er we know,
'Tis change-for ever change!

"Tis written on the tranquil waves,
Oh! fearfully and strong;
The rivers that now calmly glide,
In torrents gush along;

The birds that glad our summer woods,
Have still their hour to range;
The leaves must fall-the doom of all!
'Tis change-for ever change!

But oh! not only in the woods,

The streams, the flowers, the trees,
Do we appear, from year to year,
Less changed than aught of these?
Old loves we leave, old links we break,
Old friends to us grow strange—
The saddest emblem of the heart
Is change for ever change!

CARNWATH FAIR IN 1770.

THE sun shines potent from the mid-day sky,
His rays glance dazzling from the tinsled head,
The noon-tide fervour smooths the glossy hair,
And aids the blushing of the panting maid.

35

CARNWATH FAIR.

The rustic gallants, with their reddening prize,
Retire exulting from the dusty street,
Quaff the cool beer, and mixed with kisses bland,
And forceful sighs, the tender tale repeat.

While coyly passive sits the modest fair,

With breast wild throbbing, and dejected eye;
Or should she kind adjust the rosy lip,

Or yield the embrace, no envious tell-tale nigh.

On yonder board the bowl and tumbler marks
More costly liquor and a richer miss;
Fast by her side the brawny stripling smiles,
Nor values sixpence while he gains a kiss.

If such the blessings of a low estate,

Who would not joy to guide the shining share,
To whirl the flail, ingulf the delving spade,
Or tune the reed beside the fleecy care.

Name not the biting blast the peasant bears,
The face embrowned, the blister-swollen hand;
A day like this rewards an age of toil!

Softens the voice of many a rough command!

JAMES GRÆME, CARNWATH.

OUR AULD GUDEMAN HAS LEFT US.

OUR auld gudeman has left us—we have lost a friendly guide,
His big arm-chair is vacant noo, his staff is laid aside;
Its aid he needs nae langer as a prop against the blast,
He is resting now in safety, his pilgrimage is past!

Our auld gudeman has left us-the venerable form

That long had stood the summer's sun, and braved the winter's storm,

Has yielded now to nature's call, and the angel's welcome kiss, Hath changed his hoary winter into spring's eternal bliss!