3 In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, The bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray; At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 4 At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 5 Dule 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 foucht aye the foremost, The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay. 6 We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking, Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. BY MRS COCKBURN. 1 I've seen the smiling Of Fortune beguiling; I've felt all its favours, and found its decay: Sweet was its blessing, Kind its caressing; But now 'tis fled--fled far away. 2 I've seen the forest Adorned the foremost With flowers of the fairest most pleasant and gay; Sae bonnie was their blooming! Their scent the air perfuming! But now they are withered and weeded away. 3 I've seen the morning With gold the hills adorning, And loud tempest storming before the mid-day. I've seen Tweed's silver streams, Shining in the sunny beams, Grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way. 4 Oh, fickle Fortune, Why this cruel sporting? Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day? Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, Nae mair your frowns can fear me; For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. SIR WILLIAM JONES. This extraordinary person, the 'Justinian of India,' the master of twenty-eight languages, who into the short space of forty-eight years (he was born in 1746, and died 27th of April 1794) compressed such a vast quantity of study and labour, is also the author of two volumes of poetry, of unequal merit. We quote the best thing in the book. A PERSIAN SONG OF HAFIZ. 1 Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight, And bid these arms thy neck enfold; That rosy cheek, that lily hand, Would give thy poet more delight Than all Bokhara's vaunted gold, Than all the gems of Samarcand. 2 Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow, And bid thy pensive heart be glad, Whate'er the frowning zealots say: Tell them, their Eden cannot show A stream so clear as Rocnabad, A bower so sweet as Mosellay. 3 Oh! when these fair perfidious maids, Whose eyes our secret haunts infest, Their dear destructive charms display, Each glance my tender breast invades, And robs my wounded soul of rest, As Tartars seize their destined prey.