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OWEN OF CARRON.
N CARRON'S fide the primrose pale,
Ye maidens fair of Marlivale,
Why ftream your eyes with pity's dew?
'Tis all with gentle OWEN's blood That purple grows the primrofe pale;
That pity pours the tender flood
From each fair eye in Marlivale.
The evening far fate in his eye,
Beneath no high, hiftoric ftone,
There many a flowery race hath fprung,
Yet ftill, when May with fragrant feet
That Dirge I hear fo fimply fweet
'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,
And many an English Baron brave.
In vain by foreign arts affail'd,
No foreign loves her breaft beguile,
"Ah! woe to thee, young Nithifdale,
Thy voice, the mufic of the fhade!
* William the Lyon, King of Scotland.
The Lady Ellen, only daughter of John Earl of Moray, betrothed to the Earl of Nithifdale, and afterwards to the Earl Barnard, was esteemed one of the fineft women in Europe, infomuch that she had several fuitors and admirers from Foreign Courts.
"Ah! woe to thee, that Ellen's love "Alone to thy foft tale would yield! "For foon those gentle arms fhall prove "The conflict of a ruder field.”
'Twas thus a wayward fifter spoke,
She spoke and vanish'd—more unmov'd
With aught that fear, or fate suggest.
For love, methinks, hath power to raise
'Twas when, on summer's foftest eve,
When all the mountain gales were ftill,
Left his laft fmile on Lemmermore *.
Led by thofe waking dreams of thought
And Carron murmur'd near, and footh'd her into reft.
* A chain of mountains running through Scotland from East to West.
There is fome kind and courtly fprite,
'Tis told and I believe the tale,
At this foft hour the fprite was there, And fpread with fairer flowers the vale, And fill'd with fweeter founds 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 fhew;
All round a poplar's trembling arms
That loves to weave the lover's bower.
The afh that courts the mountain-air,
With thyme that loves the brown hill's breast,
The violet of fky woven veft,
Was all the fairy ground befpread.