OWEN OF CARRON. 0 N CARRON's fide the primrose pale, Ye maidens fair of Marlivale, Why stream your eyes with pity's dew? 'Tis all with gentle Owen's blood That purple grows the primrose pale; That pity pours the tender flood From each fair eye in Marlivale. The evening star sate in his eye, Beneath no high, historic ftone, There many a flowery race hath sprung, 1 Yet still, when May with fragrant feet II. ''Twas in the pride of WILLIAM'S * Days, And far for him their fruitful store Oh! write not poor-the wealth that flows To Ellen's † charms, were earth and ftone. For her the Youth of Scotland figh'd, The Frenchman gay, the Spaniard grave, And smoother Italy applied, And many an English Baron brave. In vain by foreign arts assail'd, No foreign loves her breaft beguile, "Ah! woe to thee, young Nithisdale, " Thy voice, the mufic of the shade! * William the Lyon, King of Scotland. + The Lady Ellen, only daughter of John Earl of Moray, betrothed to the Earl of Nithisdale, and afterwards to the Earl Barnard, was esteemed one of the finest women in Europe, infomuch that she had feveral suitors and admirers from Foreign Courts. 1 "Ah! woe to thee, that Ellen's love "Alone to thy foft tale would yield ! " For foon those gentle arms shall prove "The conflict of a ruder field." 'Twas thus a wayward fister spoke, And cast a rueful glance behind, She spoke and vanish'd-more unmov'd With aught that fear, or fate suggest. For love, methinks, hath power to raise II. 'Twas when, on fummer's foftest eve, When all the mountain gales were still, Left his last smile on Lemmermore*. And Carron murmur'd near, and footh'd her into rest. * A chain of mountains running through Scotland from East to West. : IV. There is some kind and courtly sprite, 'Tis told and I believe the tale, At this foft hour the sprite was there, And fpread with fairer flowers the vale, And fill'd with sweeter sounds the air. A bower he fram'd (for he could frame Such bower he fram'd with magic hand Yet was it wrought in fimple shew; All round a poplar's trembling arms The ash that courts the mountain-air, The violet of sky woven vest, Was all the fairy ground bespread. |