Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 61, No. 379, May, 1847

And flowers bursting free;
There were hot lips to suck forth
A lost soul from me.

Now mountain and meadow,
Frith, forest, and river,
Are mingling with shadows—
Are lost to me ever.
The sunlight is fading,
Small birds seek their nest;
While happy hearts, flower-like,
Sink sinless to rest.
But I!-'tis no matter;
Ay, kiss cheek and chin;
Kiss—kiss—thou hast won me,
Bright, beautiful Sin!"

And now we shall lay down our pen, and bid farewell for a season both to poet and to poetaster. If any of our young friends who are now setting up as ballad-writers upon their own account, have a spark of genius within them—and we do think that, with proper training, something might be made of the lads—let them study the distinctions which we have drawn above, and cultivate energy and simplicity as the cardinal virtues of composition. Also let them study, but not copy, the ancient ballad-book: for it is a domain which we have long preserved from poachers, and if we catch any of them appropriating, remodelling, or transferring from it, we shall beg an afternoon's loan of the crutch, and lay the delinquent as low as Sheldon. It may be that some do not know what is in that ballad-book: if so—let them read the Death of the Douglas at Otterbourne, and then, if they dare, indulge us with the catastrophe of Harry Hotspur.

"And then he called his little foot-page,
And said, 'Run speedilie,
And fetch my ae dear sister's son,
Sir Hugh Montgomerie.'

'My nephew gude,' the Douglas said,
'What recks the death o' ane!
Last nicht I dreimed a drearie dreim,
And I ken the day's thy ain.

'My wound is deep, I fain wad sleep;
Tak thou the vanguard o' the three,
And bury me by the braken-bush
That grows on yonder lily-lee.

O bury me by the braken-bush
Beneath the bluming brier;
Let never living mortal ken
That a kindly Scot lies here!'

He lifted up that noble lord,
Wi' the saut tear in his e'e;
He laid him in the braken-bush,
That his merrie-men might not see.

The moon was clear, the day drew near,
The spears in flinders flew;
And mony a gallant Englishman
Ere day the Scotsmen slew.

The Gordons gude in English blude
They steep'd their hose and shoon;
The Lindsays flew like fire about
Till a' the fray was dune.

The Percy and Montgomery met,
That either of other were fain;
They swappet swords, and they twa swat,
Till the blude ran down like rain.

'Now yield thee, yield thee, Percy,' he said,
'Or else I shall lay thee low.'
'To whom shall I yield?' Earl Percy said,
'Sin' I see it maun be so.'

Thou shalt not yield to lord nor loun,
Nor yet shalt thou yield to me;
But yield thee to the braken-bush
That grows on yon lily-lee.'

This deed was dune at the Otterbourne
About the breaking o' the day.
Earl Douglas was buriet at the braken-bush,
And Percy led captive away."

So died in his harness the doughty Earl of Douglas, and never was the fall of a warrior more greatly commemorated by minstrel, be his age, his land, his birth, or his language what they may!

EPITAPH OF CONSTANTINE KANARIS

FROM THE GERMAN OF WILHELM MÜLLER

I am Constantine Kanaris:
I, who lie beneath this stone,
Twice into the air in thunder
Have the Turkish galleys blown.

In my bed I died, a Christian,
Hoping straight with Christ to be;
Yet one earthly wish is buried
Deep within the grave with me.

That upon the open ocean
When the third Armada came,
They and I had died together.
Whirled aloft on wings of flame.

Yet 'tis something that they've laid me
In a land without a stain:
Keep it thus, my God and Saviour,
Till I rise from earth again!