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WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, when the cows come hame,
When a' the weary warld to quiet rest are gane;

The woes of my heart fa' in showers frae my ee,
Unken'd by my gudeman, who soundly sleeps by me.

Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and sought me for his bride
But saving ae crown piece, he'd naething else beside.
To make the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea;
And the crown and the pound, O they were baith for me!

Before he had been gane a twelvemonth and a day,
My father brak his arm, our cow was stown away;
My mother she fell sick-my Jamie was at sea-

My father cou'dna work—my mother cou'dna spin;
I toil'd day and night, but their bread I cou'dna win;
Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee,
Said, "Jenny, oh! for their sakes, will you marry me!"

My heart it said na, and I look'd for Jamie back;
But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack:
His ship it was a wrack! Why didna Jamie dee?
Or, wherefore am I spar'd to cry out, Woe is me!

My father argued sair-my mother didna speak,
But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break;
They gied him my hand, but my heart was in the sea;
And so Auld Robin Gray, he was gudeman to me.

I hadna been his wife, a week but only four,
When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door,

I saw my Jamie's ghaist-I cou'dna think it he,

Till he said, "I'm come hame, my love, to marry thee!"

O sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a';
Ae kiss we took, nae mair-I bad him gang awa.
I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;
For O, I am but young to cry out, Woe is me!

I

gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin;
I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin.
But I will do my best a gude wife aye to be,
For Auld Robin Gray, oh! he is sae kind to me.

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THE CONTINUATION.

THE wintry days grew lang, my tears they were a' spent ; May be it was despair I fancied was content.

They said my cheek was wan; I cou'd na look to see

For, oh the wee bit glass, my Jamie gaed it me.

My father he was sad, my mother dull and wae;

But that which griev'd me maist, it was Auld Robin Gray;
Though ne'er a word he said, his cheek said mair than a',
It wasted like a brae o'er which the torrents fa'.

He gaed into his bed-nae physic wad he take;
And oft he moan'd and said, "It's better, for her sake."
At length he look'd upon me,' and call'd me his "ain dear,"

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ONNE nuuporne bank twa pynynge maydens sate,
Their tears faste dryppeynge to the waterre cleere ;
Ecchone bementynge for her absente mate,

Who at Seyncte Albonns shouke the morthynge speare.
The nottebrowne Elinoure to,Juga fayre

Dydde speke acroole, wythe languishment of eyne. Lyche droppes of pearlie dew, lemed the quyvryng brine.

ELINOURE.

O gentle Juga! heare mie dernie plainte,

To fyghte for Yorke mie love ys dyghte in stele;
O mai ne sanguen steine the whyte rose payncte,

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turned, and the body, unclaimed by any friends, and unknown where he had lived, was buried in a shell in the burying ground of Shoe-lane workhouse. So perished in his pride, by a sudden fit of madness, this "marvellous boy."

The Poems of Rowley" are proved, beyond doubt, to have been the work of Chatterton, though it is strange that, to the last, he would never distinctly avow them. The extracts we have made will enable the reader to judge somewhat of their vigour, their learning, their facility and sweetness, and the rich abundance of their thought. The fragment "from Goddwynn" is prodigiously fine. Any criticism on the writings of Chatterton, however, would be misplaced. The lovers of poetry have chiefly to regret the loss of the great things he would have done. His person, like his genius, was premature. Though only seventeen when he died, he had a manliness, a dignity, and a singular power of address, far beyond his years. His mouth was marked with the deep lines of sensibility and thought, and his eyes, though grey,

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ONNE Rudborne bank twa pynynge maydens sate,
Their tears faste dryppeynge to the waterre cleere;
Ecchone bementynge for her absente mate,

Who at Seyncte Albonns shouke the morthynge speare.
The nottebrowne Elinoure to Juga fayre

Dydde speke acroole, wythe languishment of eyne. Lyche droppes of pearlie dew, lemed the quyvryng brine.

ELINOURE.

O gentle Juga! heare mie dernie plainte,

To fyghte for Yorke mie love ys dyghte in stele;
O mai ne sanguen steine the whyte rose payncte,

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