In ancient times as songs rehearse,
One charming nymph employ'd each verse,
She reign'd alone without a marrow,
Mary Scott the flower of Yarrow.
Our fathers with such beauty fir'd,
This matchless fair in crowds admir'd:
Tho' matchless then, yet here's her marrow,
Mary Scott the flower of Yarrow.
Whose beauty unadorn'd by art,
With Virtue join'd attracts each heart;
Her negligence itself would charm you,
She scarcely knows her power to warm you.
For ever cease Italian noise;
Let every string and every voice,
Sing Mary Scott without a marrow,
Mary Scott the flower of Yarrow.
Mary Scott.
[Mary Scott, called in song "The Flower of Yarrow," was celebrated for her beauty. She was a daughter of Philip Scott of Dryhope, in Selkirkshire, and was married to Walter Scott of Harden, a noted Border freebooter in the reign of Queen Mary. The ruins of Dryhope tower (the birth-place of the Flower of Yarrow) are still to be seen near the lower extremity of St. Mary's lake. Mary Scott had a lineal descendant, Mary Lilias Scott, also distinguished for her beauty, in whose honour Crawfurd's song of "Tweedside" is said to have been composed, (see page 449). The old song called "Mary Scott the Flower of Yarrow" appears to have been lost. The following is by Ramsay, to the old border air of "Mary Scott."]
Happy's the love which meets return,
When in soft flames souls equal burn;
But words are wanting to discover
The torments of a hopeless lover.
Ye registers of heaven, relate,
If looking o'er the rolls of fate,
Did you there see me mark'd to marrow
Mary Scott the flower of Yarrow?
Ah no! her form's too heavenly fair,
Her love the gods above must share;
While mortals with despair explore her,
And at distance due adore her.
O lovely maid! my doubts beguile,
Revive and bless me with a smile,
Alas! if not, you'll soon debar a
Sighing swain the banks of Yarrow.
Be hush'd, ye fears, I'll not despair,
My Mary's tender as she's fair;
Then I'll go tell her all mine anguish,
She is too good to let me languish.
With success crown'd, I'll not envy
The folks who dwell above the sky:
When Mary Scott's become my marrow,
We'll make a paradise in Yarrow.
The Rose in Yarrow.
[From "The British Songster," Glasgow, 1786.—Air, "Mary Scott."]
'Twas summer, and the day was fair,
Resolved awhile to fy from care,
Beguiling thought, forgetting sorrow,
I wandered o'er the braes of Yarrow.
Till then despising beauty's power,
I kept my heart my own secure;
But Cupid's dart did then work sorrow,
And Mary's charms on braes of Yarrow.
Will cruel love no bribe receive?
No ransom take for Mary's slave?
Her frowns of rest and hope deprive me,
Her lovely smiles like light revive me.
No bondage may with mine compare,
Since first I saw this charming fair;
This beauteous flow'r, this rose of Yarrow,
In nature's gardens has no marrow.
Had I of heaven but one request,
I'd ask to lie on Mary's breast;
There would I live or die with pleasure,
Nor spare this world one moment's leisure;
Despising kings, and all that's great,
I'd smile at courts, and courtiers' fate;
My joy complete on such a marrow,
I'd dwell with her, and live on Yarrow.
But though such bliss I ne'er should gain,
Contented still I wear my chain,
In hopes my faithful heart may move her,
