134. TO A YOUNG LADY.Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade,Apt emblem of a virtuous maid—Silent and chaste she steals along,Far from the world's gay busy throng:With gentle yet prevailing force,Intent upon her destined course;Graceful and useful all she does,Blessing and blest where'er she goes;Pure-bosom'd as that watery glass,And Heaven reflected in her face.W. COWPER.
135. THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile—Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes,Thy rosy lips still wear a smileAnd move, and breathe delicious sighs!Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeksAnd mantle o'er her neck of snow:Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaksWhat most I wish—and fear to know!She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!Her fair hands folded on her breast:—And now, how like a saint she sleeps!A seraph in the realms of rest!Sleep on secure! Above controulThy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee:And may the secret of thy soulRemain within its sanctuary!S. ROGERS.
136.For ever, Fortune, wilt thou proveAn unrelenting foe to Love,And when we meet a mutual heartCome in between, and bid us part?Bid us sigh on from day to day,And wish and wish the soul away;Till youth and genial years are flown,And all the life of life is gone?But busy, busy, still art thou,To bind the loveless joyless vow,The heart from pleasure to delude,To join the gentle to the rude.For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,And I absolve thy future care;All other blessings I resign,Make but the dear Amanda mine.J. THOMSON.
137.The merchant, to secure his treasure,Conveys it in a borrow'd name:Euphelia serves to grace my measure,But Cloe is my real flame.My softest verse, my darling lyreUpon Euphelia's toilet lay—When Cloe noted her desireThat I should sing, that I should play.My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,But with my numbers mix my sighs:And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,I fix my soul on Cloe's eyes.Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd:I sung, and gazed; I play'd, and trembled:And Venus to the Loves aroundRemark'd how ill we all dissembled.M. PRIOR.
138.When lovely woman stoops to follyAnd finds too late that men betray,—What charm can soothe her melancholy,What art can wash her guilt away?The only art her guilt to cover,To hide her shame from every eye,To give repentance to her loverAnd wring his bosom, is—to die.O. GOLDSMITH.
139.Ye banks and braes o' bonnie DoonHow can ye blume sae fair!How can ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae fu' o' care!Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie birdThat sings upon the bough;Thou minds me o' the happy daysWhen my fause Luve was true.Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie birdThat sings beside thy mate;For sae I sat, and sae I sang,And wist na o' my fate.Aft hae I roved by bonnie DoonTo see the woodbine twine,And ilka bird sang o' its love;And sae did I o' mine.Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,Frae aff its thorny tree;And my fause luver staw the rose,But left the thorn wi' me.R. BURNS.
140. THE PROGRESS OF POESY.A Pindaric Ode.Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake,And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.From Helicon's harmonious springsA thousand rills their mazy progress take:The laughing flowers that round them blowDrink life and fragrance as they flow.Now the rich stream of Music winds alongDeep, majestic, smooth, and strong,Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign;Now rolling down the steep amainHeadlong, impetuous, see it pour:The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar.O Sovereign of the willing soul,Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,Enchanting shell! the sullen CaresAnd frantic Passions hear thy soft control.On Thracia's hills the Lord of WarHas curb'd the fury of his carAnd dropt his thirsty lance at thy command.Perching on the sceptred handOf Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd kingWith ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lieThe terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.Thee the voice, the dance, obey,Temper'd to thy warbled lay.O'er Idalia's velvet-greenThe rosy-crownéd Loves are seenOn Cytherea's day,With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures,Frisking light in frolic measures;Now pursuing, now retreating,Now in circling troops they meet:To brisk notes in cadence beatingGlance their many-twinkling feet.Slow-melting strains their Queen's approach declare:Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay:With arms sublime that float upon the airIn gliding state she wins her easy way:O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom moveThe bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.Man's feeble race what ills await!Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!The fond complaint, my song, disprove,And justify the laws of Jove.Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse?Night, and all her sickly dews,Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cryHe gives to range the dreary sky:Till down the eastern cliffs afarHyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war.In climes beyond the solar roadWhere shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,The Muse has broke the twilight gloomTo cheer the shivering native's dull abode.And oft, beneath the odorous shadeOf Chili's boundless forests laid,She deigns to hear the savage youth repeatIn loose numbers wildly sweetTheir feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves.Her track, where'er the Goddess roves,Glory pursue, and generous Shame,Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep,Isles, that crown th' Aegean deep,Fields that cool Ilissus lavesOr where Maeander's amber wavesIn lingering lab'rinths creep,How do your tuneful echoes languish,Mute, but to the voice of anguish!Where each old poetic mountainInspiration breathed around;Every shade and hallow'd fountainMurmur'd deep a solemn sound:Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hourLeft their Parnassus for the Latian plains.Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,They sought, O Albion! next, thy sea-encircled coast.Far from the sun and summer-galeIn thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,To him the mighty Mother did unveilHer awful face: the dauntless ChildStretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled.This pencil take (she said) whose colours clearRichly paint the vernal year:Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy!This can unlock the gates of Joy;Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears,Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears.Nor second He, that rode sublimeUpon the seraph-wings of EcstasyThe secrets of the Abyss to spy:He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time:The living Throne, the sapphire-blazeWhere Angels tremble while they gaze,He saw; but blasted with excess of light,Closed his eyes in endless night.Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous carWide o'er the fields of Glory bearTwo coursers of ethereal raceWith necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace.Hark! his hands the lyre explore!Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er,Scatters from her pictured urnThoughts that breathe, and words that burn.But ah! 'tis heard no more—O! Lyre divine, what daring SpiritWakes thee now! Tho' he inheritNor the pride, nor ample pinionThat the Theban Eagle bear,Sailing with supreme dominionThro' the azure deep of air:Yet oft before his infant eyes would runSuch forms as glitter in the Muse's rayWith orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun:Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant wayBeyond the limits of a vulgar fate:Beneath the Good how far—but far above the Great.T. GRAY.
141. THE PASSIONS.An Ode for Music.When Music, heavenly maid, was young,While yet in early Greece she sung,The Passions oft, to hear her shell,Throng'd around her magic cellExulting, trembling, raging, fainting,Possest beyond the Muse's painting;By turns they felt the glowing mindDisturb'd, delighted, raised, refined:'Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired,From the supporting myrtles roundThey snatch'd her instruments of sound,And, as they oft had heard apartSweet lessons of her forceful art,Each, for Madness ruled the hour,Would prove his own expressive power.First Fear his hand, its skill to try,Amid the chords bewilder'd laid,And back recoil'd, he knew not why,E'en at the sound himself had made.Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,In lightnings own'd his secret stings;In one rude clash he struck the lyreAnd swept with hurried hand the strings.With woeful measures wan Despair—Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled,A solemn strange and mingled air,'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,What was thy delighted measure?Still it whisper'd promised pleasureAnd bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!Still would her touch the strain prolong;And from the rocks, the woods, the valeShe call'd on Echo still through all the song;And, where her sweetest theme she chose,A soft responsive voice was heard at every close:And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair;—And longer had she sung:—but with a frown Revenge impatient rose:He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down;And with a withering lookThe war-denouncing trumpet tookAnd blew a blast so loud and dread,Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe!And ever and anon he beatThe doubling drum with furious heat;And, though sometimes, each each dreary pause between,Dejected Pity at his sideHer soul-subduing voice applied,Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd:Sad proof of thy distressful state!Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd;And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.With eyes up-raised, as one inspired,Pale Melancholy sat retired;And from her wild sequester'd seat,In notes by distance made more sweet,Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul:And dashing soft from rocks aroundBubbling runnels join'd the sound;Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,Round an holy calm diffusing,Love of peace, and lonely musing,In hollow murmurs died away.But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier toneWhen Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,Her bow across her shoulder flung,Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known!The oak-crown'd Sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen,Satyrs and Sylvan Boys, were seenPeeping from forth their alleys green:Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear.Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:He, with viny crown advancing,First to the lively pipe his hand addrest:But soon he saw the brisk awakening violWhose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best:They would have thought who heard the strainThey saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maidsAmidst the festal-sounding shadesTo some unwearied minstrel dancing;While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the stings,Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round:Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;And he, amidst his frolic play,As if he would the charming air repay,Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.O Music! Sphere-descended maid,Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!Why, goddess, why, to us denied,Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?As in that loved Athenian bowerYou learn'd an all-commanding power,Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd!Can well recall what then it heard.Where is thy native simple heartDevote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?Arise, as in that elder time,Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime!Thy wonders, in that god-like age,Fill thy recording Sister's page;—'Tis said and I believe the tale,Thy humblest reed could more prevailHad more of strength, diviner rage,Than all which charms this laggard age,E'en all at once together foundCecilia's mingled world of sound:—O bid our vain endeavours cease:Revive the just designs of Greece:Return in all thy simple state!Confirm the tales her sons relate!W. COLLINS.
142. ODE ON THE SPRING.Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,Fair Venus' train, appear,Disclose the long-expecting flowersAnd wake the purple year!The Attic warbler pours her throatResponsive to the cuckoo's note,The untaught harmony of Spring:While, whispering pleasure as they fly,Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue skyTheir gather'd fragrance fling.Where'er the oak's thick branches stretchA broader, browner shade,Where'er the rude and moss-grown beechO'er-canopies the glade,Beside some water's rushy brinkWith me the Muse shall sit, and think(At ease reclined in rustic state)How vain the ardour of the Crowd,How low, how little, are the Proud,How indigent the Great!Still is the toiling hand of Care;The panting herds repose:Yet hark, how thro' the peopled airThe busy murmur glows!The insect youth are on the wing,Eager to taste the honied springAnd float amid the liquid noon:Some lightly o'er the current skim,Some show their gaily-gilded trimQuick-glancing to the sun.To Contemplation's sober eyeSuch is the race of Man:And they that creep, and they that fly,Shall end where they began.Alike the busy and the gayBut flutter thro' life's little day,In Fortune's varying colours drest:Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,Or chill'd by Age, their airy danceThey leave, in dust to rest.Methinks I hear in accents low,The sportive kind reply:Poor moralist! and what art thou?A solitary fly!Thy joys no glittering female meets,No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,No painted plumage to display:On hasty wings thy youth is flown;Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—We frolic while 'tis May.T. GRAY.
143. THE POPLAR FIELD.The poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shadeAnd the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a viewOf my favourite field, and the bank where they grew:And now in the grass behold they are laid,And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.The blackbird has fled to another retreatWhere the hazels afford him a screen from the heat;And the scene where his melody charm'd me beforeResounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.My fugitive years are all hasting away,And I must ere long lie lowly as they,With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head,Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;Short-lived as we are, our enjoyments, I see,Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.W. COWPER.
144. TO A FIELD-MOUSE.Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,O what a panic's in thy breastie!Thou need na start awa sae hasty,Wi' bickering brattle!I wad be laith to rin and chase theeWi' murd'ring pattle!I'm truly sorry man's dominion,Has broken nature's social union,An' justifies that ill opinionWhich makes thee startleAt me, thy poor, earth-born companion,An' fellow-mortal!I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!A daimen icker in a thrave'S a sma' request:I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,An' never miss't!Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!An' naething, now, to big a new ane,O' foggage green!And bleak December's winds ensuin'Baith snell and keen!Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,And weary winter comin' fast,And cozie here, beneath the blast,Thou thought to dwell,Till crash! the cruel coulter pastOut thro' thy cell.That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,But house or hald,To thole the winter's sleety dribble,An' cranreuch cauld!But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,In proving foresight may be vain:The best laid schemes o' mice and menGang aft a-gley,And lea'e us nought but grief and pain,For promised joy.Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!The present only toucheth thee:But, och! I backward cast my e'e.On prospects drear!An' forward, tho' I canna see,I guess and fear.R. BURNS.
145. A WISH.Mine be a cot beside the hill;A bee-hive's hum shall sooth my ear;A willowy brook that turns a mill,With many a fall shall linger near.The swallow, oft, beneath my thatchShall twitter from her clay-built nest;Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,And share my meal, a welcome guest.Around my ivied porch shall springEach fragrant flower that drinks the dew;And Lucy, at her wheel, shall singIn russet-gown and apron blue.The village-church among the trees,Where first our marriage-vows were given,With merry peals shall swell the breezeAnd point with taper spire to Heaven.S. ROGERS.
146. TO EVENING.If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral songMay hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest earLike thy own solemn springs,Thy springs, and dying gales;O Nymph reserved,—while now the bright-hair'd sunSits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirtsWith brede ethereal wove,O'erhang his wavy bed,Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed batWith short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,Or where the beetle windsHis small but sullen horn,As oft he rises midst the twilight pathAgainst the pilgrim borne in heedless hum,—Now teach me, maid composed,To breathe some soften'd strainWhose numbers, stealing through thy dark'ning vale,May not unseemly with its stillness suit;As musing slow I hailThy genial loved return.For when thy folding-star arising showsHis paly circlet, at his warning lampThe fragrant Hours, and ElvesWho slept in buds the day,And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedgeAnd sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier stillThe pensive Pleasures sweet,Prepare thy shadowy car.Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells,Whose walls more awful nodBy thy religious gleams.Or if chill blustering winds or driving rainPrevent my willing feet, be mine the hutThat, from the mountain's sideViews wilds and swelling floods,And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires;And hears their simple bell; and marks o'er allThy dewy fingers drawThe gradual dusky veil.While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!While Summer loves to sportBeneath thy lingering light;While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,Affrights thy shrinking train,And rudely rends thy robes;So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,Thy gentlest influence own,And love thy favourite name!W. COLLINS.
147. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,And leaves the world to darkness and to me.Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,And all the air a solemn stillness holds,Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:Save that from yonder ivy-mantled towerThe moping owl does to the moon complainOf such as, wandering near her secret bower,Molest her ancient solitary reign.Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.For them no more the blazing hearth shall burnOr busy housewife ply her evening care:No children run to lisp their sire's return,Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;How jocund did they drive their team afield!How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smileThe short and simple annals of the Poor.The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,Await alike th' inevitable hour:—The paths of glory lead but to the grave.Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the faultIf Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.Can storied urn or animated bustBack to its mansion call the fleeting breath?Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?Perhaps in this neglected spot is laidSome heart once pregnant with celestial fire;Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:But Knowledge to their eyes her ample pageRich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,And froze the genial current of the soul.Full many a gem of purest ray sereneThe dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air.Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breastThe little tyrant of his fields withstood,Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.Th' applause of listening senates to command,The threats of pain and ruin to despise,To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,And read their history in a nation's eyesTheir lot forbad; nor circumscribed aloneTheir growing virtues, but their crimes confined;Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,Or heap the shrine of Luxury and PrideWith incense kindled at the Muse's flame.Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strifeTheir sober wishes never learn'd to stray;Along the cool sequester'd vale of lifeThey kept the noiseless tenour of their way.Yet e'en these bones from insult to protectSome frail memorial still erected nigh,With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd Muse,The place of fame and elegy supply:And many a holy text around she strews,That teach the rustic moralist to die.For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?On some fond breast the parting soul relies,Some pious drops the closing eye requires;E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,Dost in those lines their artless tale relate;If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,—Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;There, at the foot of yonder nodding beechThat wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,And pore upon the brook that babbles by.Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;Another came; nor yet beside the rill,Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;The next with dirges due in sad array,Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,—Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the layGraved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.THE EPITAPH.Here rests his head upon the lap of EarthA Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown;Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;Heaven did a recompense as largely send:He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,He gain'd from Heaven, 'twas all he wish'd, a friend.No farther seek his merits to disclose,Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,(There they alike in trembling hope repose),The bosom of his Father and his God.T. GRAY.
148. MARY MORISON.O Mary, at thy window be,It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!Those smiles and glances let me seeThat make the miser's treasure poor:How blythely wad I bide the stoure,A weary slave frae sun to sun,Could I the rich reward secure,The lovely Mary Morison.Yestreen when to the trembling stringThe dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',To thee my fancy took its wing,—I sat, but neither heard nor saw:Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,And yon the toast of a' the town,I sigh'd, and said amang them a',"Ye are na Mary Morison."O Mary, canst thou wreck his peaceWha for thy sake wad gladly dee?Or canst thou break that heart of his,Whase only faut is loving thee?If love for love thou wilt na gie,At least be pity to me shown;A thought ungentle canna beThe thought o' Mary Morison.R. BURNS.
149. BONNIE LESLEY.O saw ye bonnie LesleyAs she gaed o'er the border?She's gane, like Alexander,To spread her conquests farther.To see her is to love her,And love but her for ever;For nature made her what she is,And ne'er made sic anither!Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,Thy subjects we, before thee;Thou art divine, fair Lesley,The hearts o' men adore thee.The deil he could na scaith thee,Or aught that wad belang thee;He'd look into thy bonnie face,And say "I canna wrang thee!"The Powers aboon will tent thee,Misfortune sha' na steer thee;Thou'rt like themselves sae lovelyThat ill they'll ne'er let near thee.Return again, fair Lesley,Return to Caledonie!That we may brag we hae a lassThere's nane again sae bonnie.R. BURNS.
150.O my Luve's like a red, red roseThat's newly sprung in June:O my Luve's like the melodieThat's sweetly play'd in tune.As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,So deep in luve am I:And I will luve thee still, my dear,Till a' the seas gang dry:Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear,And the rocks melt wi' the sun;I will luve thee still, my dear,While the sands o' life shall run.And fare thee weel, my only Luve!And fare thee weel a while!And I will come again, my LuveTho' it were ten thousand mile.R. BURNS.
151. HIGHLAND MARY.Ye banks and braes and streams aroundThe castle o' Montgomery,Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,Your waters never drumlie!There simmer first unfauld her robes,And there the langest tarry;For there I took the last fareweelO' my sweet Highland Mary.How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,How rich the hawthorn's blossom,As underneath their fragrant shadeI clasp'd her to my bosom!The golden hours on angel wingsFlew o'er me and my dearie;For dear to me as light and lifeWas my sweet Highland Mary.Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embraceOur parting was fu' tender;And pledging aft to meet again,We tore oursels asunder;But O! fell Death's untimely frost,That nipt my flower sae early!Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,That wraps my Highland Mary!O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!And closed for aye the sparkling glanceThat dwelt on me sae kindly;And mouldering now in silent dustThat heart that lo'ed me dearly!But still within my bosom's coreShall live my Highland Mary.R. BURNS.
152. AULD ROBIN GRAY.When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,And a' the warld to rest are gane,The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,While my gudeman lies sound by me.Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;But saving a croun he had naething else beside:To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;And the croun and the pund were baith for me.He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa;My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea—And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win;Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'eSaid, Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back;But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;His ship it was a wrack—Why didna Jamie dee?Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me?My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak;But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break:They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea;Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.I hadna been a wife a week but only four,When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he—Till he said, I'm come hame to marry thee.O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away;I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee;And why was I born to say, Wae's me!I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be,For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.LADY A. LINDSAY.
153. DUNCAN GRAY.Duncan Gray cam here to woo,Ha, ha, the wooing o't,On blythe Yule night when we were fou,Ha, ha, the wooing o't,Maggie coost her head fu' high,Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray'd;Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig;Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,Grat his een baith bleert and blin',Spak o' lowpin' ower a linn!Time and chance are but a tide,Slighted love is sair to bide;Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,For a haughty hizzie dee?She may gae to—France for me!How it comes let doctors tell,Meg grew sick—as he grew heal;Something in her bosom wrings,For relief a sigh she brings;And O, her een, they spak sic things!Duncan was a lad o' grace;Maggie's was a piteous case;Duncan could na be her death,Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;Now they're crouse and canty baith:Ha, ha, the wooing o't!R. BURNS.
154. THE SAILOR'S WIFE.And are ye sure the news is true?And are ye sure he's weel?Is this a time to think o' wark?Ye jades, lay by your wheel;Is this the time to spin a thread,When Colin's at the door?Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quayAnd see him come ashore.For there's nae luck about the house,There's nae luck at a';There's little pleasure in the houseWhen our gudeman's awa'.And gie to me my bigonet,My bishop's satin gown;For I maun tell the baillie's wifeThat Colin's in the town.My Turkey slippers maun gae on,My stockins pearly blue;It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,For he's baith leal and true.Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,Put on the muckle pot;Gie little Kate her button gownAnd Jock his Sunday coat;And mak their shoon as black as slaes,Their hose as white as snaw;It's a' to please my ain gudeman,For he's been long awa.There's twa fat hens upo' the coopBeen fed this month and mair;Mak haste and thraw their necks about,That Colin weel may fare;And spread the table neat and clean,Gar ilka thing look braw,For wha can tell how Colin faredWhen he was far awa?Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech.His breath like caller air;His very foot has music in'tAs he comes up the stair—And will I see his face again?And will I hear him speak?I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,In troth I'm like to greet!If Colin's weel, and weel content,I hae nae mair to crave:And gin I live to keep him sae,I'm blest aboon the lave:And will I see his face again,And will I hear him speak?I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,In troth I'm like to greet!For there's nae luck about the house,There's nae luck at a';There's little pleasure in the houseWhen our gudeman's awa.W. J. MICKLE.