This is the dumb and dreary hour
When injured ghosts complain,

And yawning graves give up their dead,
To haunt the faithless swain.

Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,

Thy pledge and broken oath

h;

And give me back my maiden vow,
And give me back my troth.

Why did you promise love to me,
And not that promise keep?

Why said you that my eyes were bright,
Yet leave those eyes to weep?

How could you say my face was fair,
And yet that face forsake?
How could you win my virgin-heart,
Yet leave that heart to break?

How could you swear my lip was sweet,
And made the scarlet pale?
And why did I, young witless maid,
Believe the flatt'ring tale?

That face, alas! no more is fair,

These lips no longer red;

Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death,

And ev'ry charm is fled.

And cold and weary lasts our night,

Till that last morn appear.

But hark!-the cock has warn'd me hence ;

A long and late adieu!

Come see, false man, how low she lies

That died for love of you.

The lark sung out, the morning smiled,
With beams of rosy red;

Pale William quaked in ev'ry limb,
And, raving, left his bed.

He hied him to the fatal place
Where Margaret's body lay,

And stretch'd him on the green grass turf
That wrapt her breathless clay.

And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name,
And thrice he wept full sore:

Then laid his cheek on her cold grave,

And word spoke never more.

There is little doubt that Mallet saw more of the an cient ballad of Fair Margaret and Sweet William than he was willing to admit; and that he imitated the story of Sweet William's Ghost in this exquisite ballad. The resemblance is far too close to be accidental; yet he acknowledges acquaintance only with the following six lines woven into the drama of the Knight of the Burning Pestle :

When it was grown to dark midnight,
And all were fast asleep,

In came Margaret's grimly ghost,

And stood at William's feet.

"These lines," says Mallet, "naked of ornament and simple as they are, struck my fancy; and bringing fresh into my mind an unhappy adventure much talked of formerly, gave birth to the following poem, which was written many years ago." Several attempts have been made to alter and improve this exquisite production, but the superior beauty and simplicity of the original copy secure it against all corruption.

WHY HANGS THAT CLOUD?

Why hangs that cloud upon thy brow,
That beauteous heav'n, erewhile serene?
Whence do these storms and tempests flow,
What may this gust of passion mean?
And must then mankind lose that light
Which in thine eyes was wont to shine,

And lie obscure in endless night,

For each poor silly speech of mine?

Dear maid, how can I wrong thy name,
Since 'tis acknowledged, at all hands,

That could ill tongues abuse thy fame,
Thy beauty can make large amends:
Or if I durst profanely try

Thy beauty's pow'rful charms t' upbraid,
Thy virtue well might give the lie,

Nor call thy beauty to its aid.

For Venus, every heart t' ensnare,
With all her charms has deck'd thy face,

And Pallas, with unusual care,

Bids wisdom heighten every grace.

Who can the double pain endure?
Or who must not resign the field
To thee, celestial maid, secure

With Cupid's bow, and Pallas' shield?

If then to thee such pow'r is given,
Let not a wretch in torment live,
But smile, and learn to copy Heaven,
Since we must sin ere it forgive.
Yet pitying Heaven not only does
Forgive th' offender and th' offence,
But even itself appeas'd bestows,
As the reward of penitence.

None of our early lyric poets pays such graceful and elegant compliments to the ladies as the author of this song, Hamilton of Bangour. The last verse has been often imitated, and often plundered. Mrs. S. H. was a fortunate lady in taking offence at something which the poet had said to her, since it was atoned for by such a

beautiful and courtly apology. Tradition has neglected to tell us her name, but it is likely she was a Hamilton. I see by the copy which Allan Ramsay published, that the words were written for an old air which bore the name of a song, long since lost, called "Halloween." It is in this way that we are made acquainted with the names of many of our ancient lyrics.

AS SYLVIA IN A FOREST LAY.

As Sylvia in a forest lay,

To vent her woe alone;

Her swain Sylvander came that way,

And heard her dying moan:
Ah! is my love, she said, to you

So worthless and so vain?

You vow'd the light should darkness turn,

Ere you'd forget your love;

In shades now may creation mourn,

Since you unfaithful prove.

Was it for this I credit gave

To ev'ry oath you swore?

But ah! it seems they most deceive

Who most our charms adore.