AMBITION IS NO CURE FOR LOVE.

SIR GILBERT ELLIOT.

Died 1777.

My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook,
And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook :
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove;
Ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love.
But what had my youth with ambition to do?
Why left I Amynta, why broke I my vow ?

Through regions remote in vain do I rove,
And bid the wide world secure me from love.
Ah, fool! to imagine that aught could subdue
A love so well founded, a passion so true!
Ah, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore,
And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more!

Alas, 'tis too late at thy fate to repine!
Poor shepherd, Amynta no more can be thine!
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain,
The moments neglected return not again.
Ah, what had my youth with ambition to do?
Why left I Amynta, why broke I my vow?

[Sir W. Scott alludes to what he calls this "beautiful pastoral song," in the Lay of the last Minstrel. Sir Gilbert Elliot was the father of the first Lord Minto.]

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.

MISS JANE ELLIOT OF MINTO

I've heard them lilting,
At the ewe-milking,

Lasses a' lilting

Before dawn of day;
But now they are moaning
On ilka green loaning ;
The Flowers of the Forest
Are a' wede awae.

At bughts in the morning,
Nae blithe lads are scorning;
Lasses are lonely,

And dowie and wae;
Nae daffing, nae gabbing,
But sighing and sabbing ;
Ilk ane lifts her leglin,
And hies her awae.

In har'st, at the shearing,
Nae youths now are jeering;
Bandsters are runkled,

And lyart or gray;
At fair or at preaching,
Nae wooing, nae fleeching:
The Flowers of the Forest

Are a' wede awae.

154

At e'en, in the gloaming,
Nae younkers are roaming
'Bout stacks, with the lasses
At bogle to play;
But ilk maid sits drearie,
Lamenting her deary-

The Flowers of the Forest
Are weded awae.

Dool and wae for the order

Sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for ance,

By guile wan the day;
The Flowers of the Forest
That fought ay the foremost,
The prime of our land

Are cauld in the clay.

We'll hear nae mair lilting
At the ewe-milking,

Women and bairns are

Heartless and wae ;

Sighing and moaning

On ilka green loaning,

The Flowers of the Forest

Are a' wede awae.

["In these beautiful stanzas," says Scott, "the manner of the ancient minstrels is so happily imitated that it required the most positive evidence to convince me that they were modern. Such evidence I have however been able to procure." [Min. of Scot. Bord. vol. iii. 333.]

Miss Jane Elliot was the sister of Sir Gilbert, the author of the fine song printed before

My sheep I neglected I lost my sheep-hook.]

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.

MISS RUTHERFORD.

I've seen the smiling
Of Fortune beguiling-
I've tasted her favours,
And felt her decay:
Sweet is her blessing,
And kind her caressing-
But soon it is filed-

It is fled far away.

I've seen the Forest,

Adorn'd of the foremost

With flowers of the fairest,
Both pleasant and gay :
Full sweet was their blooming,
Their scent the air perfuming,
But now they are wither'd,
And a' wede away.

I've seen the morning

With gold the hills adorning;
And the red storm roaring,
Before the parting day:

I've seen Tweed's silver streams
Glittering in the sunny beams,
Turn drumlie and dark

As they roll'd on their way.

Oh, fickle Fortune!
Why this cruel sporting?
Why thus perplex us,
Poor sons of a day?
Thy frowns cannot fear me,

Thy smiles cannot cheer me,

Since the Flowers of the Forest
Are a' wede away.

[Miss Rutherford of Fairnalie in Selkirkshire, afterwards Mrs. Cockburn of Ormiston, was among the first to discover the expanding genius of Sir Walter Scott, who speaks very warmly of her kindness and talents in several of his writings.

"These verses were written at an early period of her life," says Scott," and without peculiar relation to any event, unless it were the depopulation of Ettrick Forest."]

FOR LACK OF GOLD.

DR. AUSTIN.

For lack of gold she has left me-o;
And of all that's dear she's bereft me-o;

She me forsook for a great duke,

And to endless wo she has left me-o.

A star and garter have more art
Than youth, a true and faithful heart ;
For empty titles we must part;
For glittering show she has left me-o.

No cruel fair shall ever move
My injured heart again to love;
Thro' distant climates I must rove,
Since Jeany she has left me-o.