FANNY GREVILLE

LIFE! I know not what thou art,But know that thou and I must part;And when, or how, or where we met,I own to me’s a secret yet.But this I know, when thou art fled,Where’er they lay these limbs, this head,No clod so valueless shall beAs all that then remains of me.O whither, whither dost thou fly?Where bend unseen thy trackless course?And in this strange divorce,Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I?To the vast ocean of empyreal flameFrom whence thy essence cameDost thou thy flight pursue, when freedFrom matter’s base encumbering weed?Or dost thou, hid from sight,Wait, like some spell-bound knight,Through blank oblivious years th’ appointed hourTo break thy trance and reassume thy power?Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be?O say, what art thou, when no more thou’rt thee?Life! we have been long together,Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;’Tis hard to part when friends are dear;Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear;—Then steal away, give little warning,Choose thine own time;Say not Good-night, but in some brighter climeBid me Good-morning!

Life! we have been long together,Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;’Tis hard to part when friends are dear;Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear;—Then steal away, give little warning,Choose thine own time;Say not Good-night, but in some brighter climeBid me Good-morning!

18th Cent.

475.

IASK no kind return of love,No tempting charm to please;Far from the heart those gifts remove,That sighs for peace and ease.Nor peace nor ease the heart can know,That, like the needle true,Turns at the touch of joy or woe,But, turning, trembles too.Far as distress the soul can wound,’Tis pain in each degree:’Tis bliss but to a certain bound,Beyond is agony.

IASK no kind return of love,No tempting charm to please;Far from the heart those gifts remove,That sighs for peace and ease.

Nor peace nor ease the heart can know,That, like the needle true,Turns at the touch of joy or woe,But, turning, trembles too.

Far as distress the soul can wound,’Tis pain in each degree:’Tis bliss but to a certain bound,Beyond is agony.

1748-1788

476.

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!Thou messenger of Spring!Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,And woods thy welcome ring.What time the daisy decks the green,Thy certain voice we hear:Hast thou a star to guide thy path,Or mark the rolling year?Delightful visitant! with theeI hail the time of flowers,And hear the sound of music sweetFrom birds among the bowers.The schoolboy, wand’ring through the woodTo pull the primrose gay,Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,And imitates thy lay.What time the pea puts on the bloom,Thou fli’st thy vocal vale,An annual guest in other lands,Another Spring to hail.Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,Thy sky is ever clear;Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,No Winter in thy year!O could I fly, I’d fly with thee!We’d make, with joyful wing,Our annual visit o’er the globe,Companions of the Spring.

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!Thou messenger of Spring!Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,And woods thy welcome ring.

What time the daisy decks the green,Thy certain voice we hear:Hast thou a star to guide thy path,Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with theeI hail the time of flowers,And hear the sound of music sweetFrom birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy, wand’ring through the woodTo pull the primrose gay,Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,Thou fli’st thy vocal vale,An annual guest in other lands,Another Spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,Thy sky is ever clear;Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,No Winter in thy year!

O could I fly, I’d fly with thee!We’d make, with joyful wing,Our annual visit o’er the globe,Companions of the Spring.

1750-1825

477.

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 urged me 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, tho’ my heart was in 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 we tore ourselves 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.

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 urged me 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, tho’ my heart was in 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 we tore ourselves 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.

1746-1794

478.

ON parent knees, a naked new-born child,Weeping thou sat’st while all around thee smiled:So live, that sinking to thy life’s last sleep,Calm thou may’st smile, whilst all around thee weep.

1752-1770

479.

OSING unto my roundelay,O drop the briny tear with me;Dance no more at holyday,Like a running river be:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.Black his cryne as the winter night,White his rode as the summer snow,Red his face as the morning light,Cold he lies in the grave below:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.Sweet his tongue as the throstle’s note,Quick in dance as thought can be,Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;O he lies by the willow-tree!My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.

OSING unto my roundelay,O drop the briny tear with me;Dance no more at holyday,Like a running river be:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.

Black his cryne as the winter night,White his rode as the summer snow,Red his face as the morning light,Cold he lies in the grave below:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle’s note,Quick in dance as thought can be,Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;O he lies by the willow-tree!My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.

479.cryne] hair. rode] complexion.

Hark! the raven flaps his wingIn the brier’d dell below;Hark! the death-owl loud doth singTo the nightmares, as they go:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.See! the white moon shines on high;Whiter is my true-love’s shroud:Whiter than the morning sky,Whiter than the evening cloud:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.Here upon my true-love’s graveShall the barren flowers be laid;Not one holy saint to saveAll the coldness of a maid:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.With my hands I’ll dent the briersRound his holy corse to gre:Ouph and fairy, light your fires,Here my body still shall be:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wingIn the brier’d dell below;Hark! the death-owl loud doth singTo the nightmares, as they go:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon shines on high;Whiter is my true-love’s shroud:Whiter than the morning sky,Whiter than the evening cloud:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.

Here upon my true-love’s graveShall the barren flowers be laid;Not one holy saint to saveAll the coldness of a maid:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.

With my hands I’ll dent the briersRound his holy corse to gre:Ouph and fairy, light your fires,Here my body still shall be:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.

dent] fasten. gre] grow. ouph] elf.

COME, with acorn-cup and thorn,Drain my heartès blood away;Life and all its good I scorn,Dance by night, or feast by day:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bedAll under the willow-tree.

1754-1832

480.

MY Damon was the first to wakeThe gentle flame that cannot die;My Damon is the last to takeThe faithful bosom’s softest sigh:The life between is nothing worth,O cast it from thy thought away!Think of the day that gave it birth,And this its sweet returning day.Buried be all that has been done,Or say that naught is done amiss;For who the dangerous path can shunIn such bewildering world as this?But love can every fault forgive,Or with a tender look reprove;And now let naught in memory liveBut that we meet, and that we love.

Buried be all that has been done,Or say that naught is done amiss;For who the dangerous path can shunIn such bewildering world as this?But love can every fault forgive,Or with a tender look reprove;And now let naught in memory liveBut that we meet, and that we love.

481.

WE’ve trod the maze of error round,Long wandering in the winding glade;And now the torch of truth is found,It only shows us where we strayed:By long experience taught, we know—Can rightly judge of friends and foes;Can all the worth of these allow,And all the faults discern in those.Now, ’tis our boast that we can quellThe wildest passions in their rage,Can their destructive force repel,And their impetuous wrath assuage.—Ah, Virtue! dost thou arm when nowThis bold rebellious race are fled?When all these tyrants rest, and thouArt warring with the mighty dead?

Now, ’tis our boast that we can quellThe wildest passions in their rage,Can their destructive force repel,And their impetuous wrath assuage.—Ah, Virtue! dost thou arm when nowThis bold rebellious race are fled?When all these tyrants rest, and thouArt warring with the mighty dead?

482.

THE ring, so worn as you behold,So thin, so pale, is yet of gold:The passion such it was to prove—Worn with life’s care, love yet was love.

1757-1827

483.

WHETHER on Ida’s shady browOr in the chambers of the East,The chambers of the Sun, that nowFrom ancient melody have ceased;Whether in heaven ye wander fair,Or the green corners of the earth,Or the blue regions of the airWhere the melodious winds have birth;Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,Beneath the bosom of the sea,Wandering in many a coral grove;Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;How have you left the ancient loveThat bards of old enjoy’d in you!The languid strings do scarcely move,The sound is forced, the notes are few.

WHETHER on Ida’s shady browOr in the chambers of the East,The chambers of the Sun, that nowFrom ancient melody have ceased;

Whether in heaven ye wander fair,Or the green corners of the earth,Or the blue regions of the airWhere the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,Beneath the bosom of the sea,Wandering in many a coral grove;Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;

How have you left the ancient loveThat bards of old enjoy’d in you!The languid strings do scarcely move,The sound is forced, the notes are few.

484.

OTHOU with dewy locks, who lookest downThrough the clear windows of the morning, turnThine angel eyes upon our western isle,Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!The hills tell one another, and the listeningValleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn’dUp to thy bright pavilions: issue forthAnd let thy holy feet visit our clime!Come o’er the eastern hills, and let our windsKiss thy perfumèd garments; let us tasteThy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearlsUpon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pourThy soft kisses on her bosom; and putThy golden crown upon her languish’d head,Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.

OTHOU with dewy locks, who lookest downThrough the clear windows of the morning, turnThine angel eyes upon our western isle,Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!

The hills tell one another, and the listeningValleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn’dUp to thy bright pavilions: issue forthAnd let thy holy feet visit our clime!

Come o’er the eastern hills, and let our windsKiss thy perfumèd garments; let us tasteThy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearlsUpon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.

O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pourThy soft kisses on her bosom; and putThy golden crown upon her languish’d head,Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee.

485.

MY silks and fine array,My smiles and languish’d air,By Love are driven away;And mournful lean DespairBrings me yew to deck my grave:Such end true lovers have.His face is fair as heavenWhen springing buds unfold:O why to him was’t given,Whose heart is wintry cold?His breast is Love’s all-worshipp’d tomb,Where all Love’s pilgrims come.Bring me an axe and spade,Bring me a winding-sheet;When I my grave have made,Let winds and tempests beat:Then down I’ll lie, as cold as clay:True love doth pass away!

MY silks and fine array,My smiles and languish’d air,By Love are driven away;And mournful lean DespairBrings me yew to deck my grave:Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heavenWhen springing buds unfold:O why to him was’t given,Whose heart is wintry cold?His breast is Love’s all-worshipp’d tomb,Where all Love’s pilgrims come.

Bring me an axe and spade,Bring me a winding-sheet;When I my grave have made,Let winds and tempests beat:Then down I’ll lie, as cold as clay:True love doth pass away!

486.

PIPING down the valleys wild,Piping songs of pleasant glee,On a cloud I saw a child,And he laughing said to me:‘Pipe a song about a Lamb!’So I piped with merry cheer.‘Piper, pipe that song again;’So I piped: he wept to hear.‘Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;Sing thy songs of happy cheer!’So I sung the same again,While he wept with joy to hear.‘Piper, sit thee down and writeIn a book that all may read.’So he vanish’d from my sight;And I pluck’d a hollow reed,And I made a rural pen,And I stain’d the water clear,And I wrote my happy songsEvery child may joy to hear.

PIPING down the valleys wild,Piping songs of pleasant glee,On a cloud I saw a child,And he laughing said to me:

‘Pipe a song about a Lamb!’So I piped with merry cheer.‘Piper, pipe that song again;’So I piped: he wept to hear.

‘Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;Sing thy songs of happy cheer!’So I sung the same again,While he wept with joy to hear.

‘Piper, sit thee down and writeIn a book that all may read.’So he vanish’d from my sight;And I pluck’d a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,And I stain’d the water clear,And I wrote my happy songsEvery child may joy to hear.

487.

MY mother bore me in the southern wild,And I am black, but O, my soul is white!White as an angel is the English child,But I am black, as if bereaved of light.My mother taught me underneath a tree,And, sitting down before the heat of day,She took me on her lap and kissèd me,And, pointing to the East, began to say:‘Look at the rising sun: there God does live,And gives His light, and gives His heat away,And flowers and trees and beasts and men receiveComfort in morning, joy in the noonday.‘And we are put on earth a little space,That we may learn to bear the beams of love;And these black bodies and this sunburnt faceAre but a cloud, and like a shady grove.‘For when our souls have learn’d the heat to bear,The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice,Saying, “Come out from the grove, my love and care,And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.”’Thus did my mother say, and kissèd me,And thus I say to little English boy.When I from black and he from white cloud free,And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,I’ll shade him from the heat till he can bearTo lean in joy upon our Father’s knee;And then I’ll stand and stroke his silver hair,And be like him, and he will then love me.

MY mother bore me in the southern wild,And I am black, but O, my soul is white!White as an angel is the English child,But I am black, as if bereaved of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree,And, sitting down before the heat of day,She took me on her lap and kissèd me,And, pointing to the East, began to say:

‘Look at the rising sun: there God does live,And gives His light, and gives His heat away,And flowers and trees and beasts and men receiveComfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

‘And we are put on earth a little space,That we may learn to bear the beams of love;And these black bodies and this sunburnt faceAre but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

‘For when our souls have learn’d the heat to bear,The cloud will vanish, we shall hear His voice,Saying, “Come out from the grove, my love and care,And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.”’

Thus did my mother say, and kissèd me,And thus I say to little English boy.When I from black and he from white cloud free,And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

I’ll shade him from the heat till he can bearTo lean in joy upon our Father’s knee;And then I’ll stand and stroke his silver hair,And be like him, and he will then love me.

488.

HEAR the voice of the Bard,Who present, past, and future, sees;Whose ears have heardThe Holy WordThat walk’d among the ancient trees;Calling the lapsèd soul,And weeping in the evening dew;That might controlThe starry pole,And fallen, fallen light renew!‘O Earth, O Earth, return!Arise from out the dewy grass!Night is worn,And the mornRises from the slumbrous mass.‘Turn away no more;Why wilt thou turn away?The starry floor,The watery shore,Is given thee till the break of day.’

HEAR the voice of the Bard,Who present, past, and future, sees;Whose ears have heardThe Holy WordThat walk’d among the ancient trees;

Calling the lapsèd soul,And weeping in the evening dew;That might controlThe starry pole,And fallen, fallen light renew!

‘O Earth, O Earth, return!Arise from out the dewy grass!Night is worn,And the mornRises from the slumbrous mass.

‘Turn away no more;Why wilt thou turn away?The starry floor,The watery shore,Is given thee till the break of day.’

489.

TIGER, tiger, burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the fire of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand dare seize the fire?And what shoulder and what artCould twist the sinews of thy heart?And, when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand and what dread feet?What the hammer? What the chain?In what furnace was thy brain?What the anvil? What dread graspDare its deadly terrors clasp?When the stars threw down their spears,And watered heaven with their tears,Did He smile His work to see?Did He who made the lamb make thee?Tiger, tiger, burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeDare frame thy fearful symmetry?

TIGER, tiger, burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the fire of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what artCould twist the sinews of thy heart?And, when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? What the chain?In what furnace was thy brain?What the anvil? What dread graspDare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,And watered heaven with their tears,Did He smile His work to see?Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeDare frame thy fearful symmetry?

490.

SLEEP, sleep, beauty bright,Dreaming in the joys of night;Sleep, sleep; in thy sleepLittle sorrows sit and weep.Sweet babe, in thy faceSoft desires I can trace,Secret joys and secret smiles,Little pretty infant wiles.As thy softest limbs I feelSmiles as of the morning stealO’er thy cheek, and o’er thy breastWhere thy little heart doth rest.O the cunning wiles that creepIn thy little heart asleep!When thy little heart doth wake,Then the dreadful night shall break.

SLEEP, sleep, beauty bright,Dreaming in the joys of night;Sleep, sleep; in thy sleepLittle sorrows sit and weep.

Sweet babe, in thy faceSoft desires I can trace,Secret joys and secret smiles,Little pretty infant wiles.

As thy softest limbs I feelSmiles as of the morning stealO’er thy cheek, and o’er thy breastWhere thy little heart doth rest.

O the cunning wiles that creepIn thy little heart asleep!When thy little heart doth wake,Then the dreadful night shall break.

491.

THE sun descending in the west,The evening star does shine;The birds are silent in their nest.And I must seek for mine.The moon, like a flowerIn heaven’s high bower,With silent delightSits and smiles on the night.Farewell, green fields and happy grove,Where flocks have took delight:Where lambs have nibbled, silent moveThe feet of angels bright;Unseen they pour blessingAnd joy without ceasingOn each bud and blossom,On each sleeping bosom.They look in every thoughtless nestWhere birds are cover’d warm;They visit caves of every beast,To keep them all from harm:If they see any weepingThat should have been sleeping,They pour sleep on their head,And sit down by their bed.When wolves and tigers howl for prey,They pitying stand and weep,Seeking to drive their thirst awayAnd keep them from the sheep.But, if they rush dreadful,The angels, most heedful,Receive each mild spirit,New worlds to inherit.And there the lion’s ruddy eyesShall flow with tears of gold:And pitying the tender cries,And walking round the fold:Saying, ‘Wrath by His meekness,And, by His health, sickness,Are driven awayFrom our immortal day.‘And now beside thee, bleating lamb,I can lie down and sleep,Or think on Him who bore thy name,Graze after thee, and weep.For, wash’d in life’s river,My bright mane for everShall shine like the goldAs I guard o’er the fold.’

Farewell, green fields and happy grove,Where flocks have took delight:Where lambs have nibbled, silent moveThe feet of angels bright;Unseen they pour blessingAnd joy without ceasingOn each bud and blossom,On each sleeping bosom.

They look in every thoughtless nestWhere birds are cover’d warm;They visit caves of every beast,To keep them all from harm:If they see any weepingThat should have been sleeping,They pour sleep on their head,And sit down by their bed.

When wolves and tigers howl for prey,They pitying stand and weep,Seeking to drive their thirst awayAnd keep them from the sheep.But, if they rush dreadful,The angels, most heedful,Receive each mild spirit,New worlds to inherit.

And there the lion’s ruddy eyesShall flow with tears of gold:And pitying the tender cries,And walking round the fold:Saying, ‘Wrath by His meekness,And, by His health, sickness,Are driven awayFrom our immortal day.

‘And now beside thee, bleating lamb,I can lie down and sleep,Or think on Him who bore thy name,Graze after thee, and weep.For, wash’d in life’s river,My bright mane for everShall shine like the goldAs I guard o’er the fold.’

492.

NEVER seek to tell thy love,Love that never told can be;For the gentle wind doth moveSilently, invisibly.I told my love, I told my love,I told her all my heart,Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears.Ah! she did depart!Soon after she was gone from me,A traveller came by,Silently, invisibly:He took her with a sigh.

NEVER seek to tell thy love,Love that never told can be;For the gentle wind doth moveSilently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,I told her all my heart,Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears.Ah! she did depart!

Soon after she was gone from me,A traveller came by,Silently, invisibly:He took her with a sigh.

1759-1796

493.

OMARY, at thy window be,It is the wish’d, the trysted hour!Those smiles and glances let me see,That make the miser’s treasure poor:How blythely wad I bide the stourA 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:

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:

493.stour] dust, turmoil.

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 peace,Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?Or canst thou break that heart of his,Whase only faut is loving thee?If love for love thou wiltna gie,At least be pity to me shown;A thought ungentle canna beThe thought o’ Mary Morison.

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 peace,Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?Or canst thou break that heart of his,Whase only faut is loving thee?If love for love thou wiltna gie,At least be pity to me shown;A thought ungentle canna beThe thought o’ Mary Morison.

494.

OF a’ the airts the wind can blaw,I dearly like the west,For there the bonnie lassie lives,The lassie I lo’e best:There wild woods grow, and rivers row,And monie a hill between;But day and night my fancy’s flightIs ever wi’ my Jean.I see her in the dewy flowers,I see her sweet and fair:I hear her in the tunefu’ birds,I hear her charm the air:There’s not a bonnie flower that springsBy fountain, shaw, or green;There’s not a bonnie bird that sings,But minds me o’ my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,I see her sweet and fair:I hear her in the tunefu’ birds,I hear her charm the air:There’s not a bonnie flower that springsBy fountain, shaw, or green;There’s not a bonnie bird that sings,But minds me o’ my Jean.

494.airts] points of the compass. row] roll.

495.

SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,And never brought to min’?Should auld acquaintance be forgot,And days o’ lang syne?We twa hae rin about the braes,And pu’d the gowans fine;But we’ve wandered monie a weary fitSin’ auld lang syne.We twa hae paidl’t i’ the burn,Frae mornin’ sun till dine;But seas between us braid hae roar’dSin’ auld lang syne.And here’s a hand, my trusty fiere,And gie’s a hand o’ thine;And we’ll tak a right guid-willie waughtFor auld lang syne.And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp,And surely I’ll be mine;And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yetFor auld lang syne!For auld lang syne, my dear,For auld lang syne,We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yetFor auld lang syne.

SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,And never brought to min’?Should auld acquaintance be forgot,And days o’ lang syne?

We twa hae rin about the braes,And pu’d the gowans fine;But we’ve wandered monie a weary fitSin’ auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl’t i’ the burn,Frae mornin’ sun till dine;But seas between us braid hae roar’dSin’ auld lang syne.

And here’s a hand, my trusty fiere,And gie’s a hand o’ thine;And we’ll tak a right guid-willie waughtFor auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp,And surely I’ll be mine;And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yetFor auld lang syne!

For auld lang syne, my dear,For auld lang syne,We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yetFor auld lang syne.

gowans] daisies. fit] foot. dine] dinner-time. fiere] partner. guid-willie waught] friendly draught.

496.

GO fetch to me a pint ’o wine,An’ fill it in a silver tassie,That I may drink, before I go,A service to my bonnie lassie.The boat rocks at the pier o’ Leith,Fu’ loud the wind blaws frae the ferry,The ship rides by the Berwick-law,And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.The trumpets sound, the banners fly,The glittering spears are rankèd ready;The shouts o’ war are heard afar,The battle closes thick and bloody;But it’s no the roar o’ sea or shoreWad mak me langer wish to tarry;Nor shout o’ war that’s heard afar—It’s leaving thee, my bonnie Mary!

The trumpets sound, the banners fly,The glittering spears are rankèd ready;The shouts o’ war are heard afar,The battle closes thick and bloody;But it’s no the roar o’ sea or shoreWad mak me langer wish to tarry;Nor shout o’ war that’s heard afar—It’s leaving thee, my bonnie Mary!

496.tassie] cup.

497.

JOHN Anderson, my jo, John,When we were first acquent,Your locks were like the raven,Your bonnie brow was brent;But now your brow is beld, John,Your locks are like the snow;But blessings on your frosty pow,John Anderson, my jo!

497.jo] sweetheart. brent] smooth, unwrinkled. beld] bald. pow] pate.

JOHN Anderson, my jo, John,We clamb the hill thegither;And monie a canty day, John,We’ve had wi’ ane anither:Now we maun totter down, John,But hand in hand we’ll go,And sleep thegither at the foot,John Anderson, my jo.

497.canty] cheerful.

498.

YE flowery banks o’ bonnie Doon,How 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 bird,That sings upon the bough;Thou minds me o’ the happy daysWhen my fause luve was true.Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,That sings beside thy mate;For sae I sat, and sae I sang,And wistna o’ my fate.Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,To see the woodbine twine;And ilka bird sang o’ its luve,And sae did I o’ mine.Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a roseUpon a morn in June;And sae I flourish’d on the morn,And sae was pu’d or’ noon.

YE flowery banks o’ bonnie Doon,How 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 bird,That sings upon the bough;Thou minds me o’ the happy daysWhen my fause luve was true.

Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,That sings beside thy mate;For sae I sat, and sae I sang,And wistna o’ my fate.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,To see the woodbine twine;And ilka bird sang o’ its luve,And sae did I o’ mine.

Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a roseUpon a morn in June;And sae I flourish’d on the morn,And sae was pu’d or’ noon.

498.or’] ere.

Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a roseUpon its thorny tree;But my fause luver staw my rose,And left the thorn wi’ me.

498.staw] stole.

499.

AE fond kiss, and then we sever;Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee!Who shall say that Fortune grieves himWhile the star of hope she leaves him?Me, nae cheerfu’ twinkle lights me,Dark despair around benights me.I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy;Naething could resist my Nancy;But to see her was to love her,Love but her, and love for ever.Had we never loved sae kindly,Had we never loved sae blindly,Never met—or never parted,We had ne’er been broken-hearted.Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!Thine be ilka joy and treasure,Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee!

AE fond kiss, and then we sever;Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee!

Who shall say that Fortune grieves himWhile the star of hope she leaves him?Me, nae cheerfu’ twinkle lights me,Dark despair around benights me.

I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy;Naething could resist my Nancy;But to see her was to love her,Love but her, and love for ever.

Had we never loved sae kindly,Had we never loved sae blindly,Never met—or never parted,We had ne’er been broken-hearted.

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!Thine be ilka joy and treasure,Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee!

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