I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When mournfu’ as I sat on the stane at the door, I saw my Jamie’s wraith,--for I couldna think it he, Till he said, ‘I’m come hame to marry thee.’ O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say; We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away: I wish that I were dead, but I’m no like to dee; And why was I born to say, Wae’s me! I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; But I’ll do my best a gude wife aye to be, For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me. SIR WILLIAM JONES 1746-1794 _478._ _Epigram_ On parent knees, a naked new-born child, Weeping thou sat’st while all around thee smiled: So live, that sinking to thy life’s last sleep, Calm thou may’st smile, whilst all around thee weep. THOMAS CHATTERTON 1752-1770 _479._ _Song from Ælla_ O sing unto my roundelay, O drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holyday, Like a running river be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree. Black his cryne as the winter night, White his rode as the summer snow, Red his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree. Sweet his tongue as the throstle’s note, Quick in dance as thought can be, Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; O he lies by the willow-tree! My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree. _479._ cryne] hair. rode] complexion. Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the brier’d dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares, as they go: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree. See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true-love’s shroud: Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree. Here upon my true-love’s grave Shall the barren flowers be laid; Not one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree. With my hands I’ll dent the briers Round his holy corse to gre: Ouph and fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree. dent] fasten. gre] grow. ouph] elf. Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my heartès blood away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree. GEORGE CRABBE 1754-1832 _480._ _Meeting_