82 
She neither chattered with her teeth, 
Nor shivered with her chin, 
*¢ Alas! alas!” her father cried, 
‘There is nae breath within !” 
And so they carry her away to her distant tomb, and she is laid 
for the night in the church of S. Mary, according to her father’s 
promise, and all is ready for the burial of the fair but unhappy 
young stranger from the distant southern land, when suddenly her 
lover appears upon the scene, and at his touch— 
She brightened like the lily flower, 
Till her pale colours gone, 
With rosy cheek and ruby lip, 
She smiles her love upon. 
I hope there are ladies in the nineteenth century—though I don’t 
think their courage will be put to as severe a test—as true, as 
constant, and of as high a spirit ; as we hope, or else these ladies 
would be thrown away, that there are lovers as constant as he who 
mourned for Helen of Kirkconnell upon the braes of Kirtle— 
Oh, Helen, fair beyond compare, 
T’ll make a garland of thy hair, 
Shall bind my heart for ever mair, 
Until the day I die. 
The period and the people that gave birth to songs and ballads 
like these, were full, we are sure, of sad and pathetic incidents 
enough. There were partings, often for ever, from mothers, and 
wives, and sisters, and children—and sad waitings and watchings 
for the loved ones that would never return again—sorrowings like 
those after the fatal field of Flodden, so strikingly described in the 
verses of the famous, though modern, ballad written by a lady of 
an old Border family—‘‘ The Flowers of the Forest.” 
Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border, — 
The English for once by guile wan the day ; 
The Flowers of the Forest that fought aye the foremost, 
The prime of the land are cold in the clay. 
We'll hear na mair lilting at the ewes milking— 
Women and bairns are heartless and wae ! 
Sighing and moaning in ilka green loaning, 
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wide away. 
