Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/380

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THE FLOWER OF YARROW.
He moved one step from her, and said,
 "How tender, true, and long,
I've loved thee, lived for thee, and fought
 Might grace some landward song;
My song maun be the sounding wave,
 My good bark breasting through—"
He waved his hand—he could nae say
 My Jean a long adieu!

She was a sweet and lovesome lass,
 Wi' a dark an' downcast e'e;
Now she's a wedded dame and douce,
 With bairnies at her knee;
Yet oft she thinks on the sailor lad
 When the sea leaps on the shore.—
His heart was broke—and a storm came on—
 He ne'er shall waken more.

The Flower of Yarrow.
In ancient times as songs rehearse,
One charming nymph employed each verse,
She reigned alone without a marrow,
Mary Scott, the flower of Yarrow.

Our fathers with such beauty fired,
This matchless fair in crowds admired,
Tho' matchless then, yet here's her marrow,
Mary Scott, the flower of Yarrow.

Whose beauty unadorned by art,
With virtue joined attracts each heart,
Her negligence itself would charm you,
She scarcely knows her power to warm you.

For ever cease Italian noise,
Let every string and every voice,
Sing Mary Scott without a marrow,
Mary Scott, the flower of Yarrow.

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