WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, when the cows come hame, The woes of my heart fa' in showers frae my ee, Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and sought me for his bride Before he had been gane a twelvemonth and a day, My father cou'dna work—my mother cou'dna spin; My heart it said na, and I look'd for Jamie back; My father argued sair-my mother didna speak, I hadna been his wife, a week but only four, I saw my Jamie's ghaist-I cou'dna think it he, Till he said, "I'm come hame, my love, to marry thee!" O sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a'; I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin; THE CONTINUATION. THE wintry days grew lang, my tears they were a' spent ; May be it was despair I fancied was content. They said my cheek was wan; I cou'd na look to see For, oh the wee bit glass, my Jamie gaed it me. My father he was sad, my mother dull and wae; But that which griev'd me maist, it was Auld Robin Gray; He gaed into his bed-nae physic wad he take; ONNE nuuporne bank twa pynynge maydens sate, Who at Seyncte Albonns shouke the morthynge speare. Dydde speke acroole, wythe languishment of eyne. Lyche droppes of pearlie dew, lemed the quyvryng brine. ELINOURE. O gentle Juga! heare mie dernie plainte, To fyghte for Yorke mie love ys dyghte in stele; turned, and the body, unclaimed by any friends, and unknown where he had lived, was buried in a shell in the burying ground of Shoe-lane workhouse. So perished in his pride, by a sudden fit of madness, this "marvellous boy." The Poems of Rowley" are proved, beyond doubt, to have been the work of Chatterton, though it is strange that, to the last, he would never distinctly avow them. The extracts we have made will enable the reader to judge somewhat of their vigour, their learning, their facility and sweetness, and the rich abundance of their thought. The fragment "from Goddwynn" is prodigiously fine. Any criticism on the writings of Chatterton, however, would be misplaced. The lovers of poetry have chiefly to regret the loss of the great things he would have done. His person, like his genius, was premature. Though only seventeen when he died, he had a manliness, a dignity, and a singular power of address, far beyond his years. His mouth was marked with the deep lines of sensibility and thought, and his eyes, though grey, ONNE Rudborne bank twa pynynge maydens sate, Who at Seyncte Albonns shouke the morthynge speare. Dydde speke acroole, wythe languishment of eyne. Lyche droppes of pearlie dew, lemed the quyvryng brine. ELINOURE. O gentle Juga! heare mie dernie plainte, To fyghte for Yorke mie love ys dyghte in stele; |