LINES TO MISS ——,

LINES TO MISS ——,Upon her appearing at a Ball in an elegant Plaid Dress,AND HAVING REPEATEDLY BEFORE EXPRESSED HER PREFERENCE OF THE SCOTISH NATION.Is it that plaided thus you wish to proveHow northern is the region of your love?Ah, Mary! tho’, within that far-fam’d clime,Deeds have been done that mock the wreck of Time;Tho’ there the brave have bled, or, o’er the wave,On distant shores have found a glorious grave;Tho’ there the mountain-nymph of song has pour’dHer loftiest strain, to bless the hero’s sword;Still, lovely wand’rer, with a jealous eye,O’er Scotia’s hills we see thy fancy fly;Forherethe warrior oft has rais’d his sword,The patriot too his noble blood has pour’d;Heretoo the sweet Recorder of the braveHas sat and sung upon her hero’s grave.Then cease, romantic maid! ah, cease to rove;The very wood-dove loves its native grove:Oh! then, let Nature bid thy guileless heartHere shed its love, and all its warmth impart;And on the land that gave thee birth bestowThe fondness which it claims, and treasures too.

Upon her appearing at a Ball in an elegant Plaid Dress,

Is it that plaided thus you wish to proveHow northern is the region of your love?Ah, Mary! tho’, within that far-fam’d clime,Deeds have been done that mock the wreck of Time;Tho’ there the brave have bled, or, o’er the wave,On distant shores have found a glorious grave;Tho’ there the mountain-nymph of song has pour’dHer loftiest strain, to bless the hero’s sword;Still, lovely wand’rer, with a jealous eye,O’er Scotia’s hills we see thy fancy fly;Forherethe warrior oft has rais’d his sword,The patriot too his noble blood has pour’d;Heretoo the sweet Recorder of the braveHas sat and sung upon her hero’s grave.Then cease, romantic maid! ah, cease to rove;The very wood-dove loves its native grove:Oh! then, let Nature bid thy guileless heartHere shed its love, and all its warmth impart;And on the land that gave thee birth bestowThe fondness which it claims, and treasures too.


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