Do but look on her eyes! they do light As Love's star when it riseth! And from her arch'd brows such a grace As alone there triumphs to the life, All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touch'd it? Or have smelt o' the bud of the brier? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? TELL ME How To Woo THEE. IF doughty deeds my lady please, Thy picture at my heart; Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; If gay attire delight thine eye I'll dight me in array ; That voice that nane can match. But if fond love thy heart can gain, I never broke a vow; Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, I never loved but you. For you alone I ride the ring, For you alone I strive to sing, Oh tell me how to woo! Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; GRAHAM OF GARTMORE. O NANNY, WILT THOU GO WITH ME. O NANNY, wilt thou go with me, Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town? Can silent glens have charms for thee,The lowly cot and russet gown? No longer drest in silken sheen, No longer deck'd with jewels rare,— Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? O Nanny, when thou'rt far away, Wilt thou not cast a wish behind? Say, canst thou face the parching ray, Nor shrink before the wintry wind? Oh, can that soft and gentle mien Extremes of hardship learn to bear, Nor sad regret each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? O Nanny, canst thou love so true, Through perils keen with me to go; Or when thy swain mishap shall rue, To share with him the pang of woe? Say, should disease or pain befall, Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, Nor wistful those gay scenes recall, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? And when at last thy love shall die, Wilt thou receive his parting breath, Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, And cheer with smiles the bed of death? And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay Strew flowers and drop the tender tear, Nor then regret those scenes so gay, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? THOMAS PERCY. WHEN MAGGY GANGS AWAY, When Maggy gangs away? There's no a heart in a' the glen That disna dread the day: Oh, what will a' the lads do When Maggy gangs away? Young Jock has ta'en the hill for't, The young laird o' the Lang-Shaw And that is mair in maiden's praise Than ony priest should say: But oh, what will the lads do When Maggy gangs away? The wailing in our green glen That day will quaver high; That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known, To which time will but make thee more dear; No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turn'd when he rose. THOMAS MOore. THE YOUNG MAY MOON. THE young May moon is beaming, love, The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love, How sweet to rove Through Morna's grove When the drowsy world is dreaming, love! Then awake! the heavens look bright, my dear, 'Tis never too late for delight, my dear, And the best of all ways To lengthen our days "Twill draw the redbreast frae the wood, Is to steal a few hours from the night, my The laverock frae the sky; The fairies frae their beds o' dew Will rise an' join the lay: An' hey! what a day 'twill be JAMES HOGG. BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS. BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away, Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still. It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, dear. Now all the world is sleeping, love, But the sage, his star-watch keeping, love, And I, whose star, More glorious far, Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. Then awake! till rise of sun, my dear, Of bodies of light, He might happen to take thee for one, my dear. THOMAS MOORE. MY EYES! HOW I LOVE YOU! My eyes! how I love you, Most beautiful Kitty. So glossy your hair is, Like a sylph's or a fairy's; And your neck, I declare, is Exquisitely pretty! Quite Grecian your nose is, And your cheeks are like roses, So delicious-O Moses! Surpassingly sweet! Not the beauty of tulips, Not the black eyes of Juno, Oh, how my heart prances, And now, dearest Kitty, Indeed it's a pity, To keep me in sorrow; So, if you'll but chime in, We'll have done with our rhymin', Swap Cupid for Hymen, And be married to-morrow. AUTHOR UNKNOWN. LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. LOVE me little, love me long, Burneth soon to waste. If thou lovest me too much, It will not prove as true as touch; I am with little well content, Say thou lov'st me while thou live, While that life endures: Nay, and after death, in sooth, I to thee will keep my truth, As now, when in my May of youth, This my love assures. Constant love is moderate ever, A suit of durance let it be, Winter's cold or summer's heat, Such the love that I would gain, AUTHOR UNKNOWN. JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE. THE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin', To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flow'r o' Dumblane. How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom, And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the Flow'r o' Dumblane. She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie, For guileless simplicity marks her its ain; And far be the villain, divested of feel ing, Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flow'r o' Dumblane. "I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing, Nor saw I your true love down by yon lea; But I met my bonny thing late in the gloaming, Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was milk-white, Dark was the blue of her saft-rolling ee; Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me." "It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain, thing, It was nae my true love ye met by the tree; Proud is her leal heart, and modest her nature; She never loved ony till ance she lo'ed me. Her name it is Mary; she's frae Castle Aft has she sat when a bairn on my Fair as your face is, were't fifty times fairer, Young bragger, she ne'er wad gie kisses to thee." "It was then your Mary; she's frae Castle Cary; It was then your true love I met by the tree; Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature, Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me." Sair gloom'd his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew, Wild flash'd the fire frae his red-rolling ee; “Ye'se rue sair this morning your boasts and your scorning, Defend ye, fause traitor; fu' loudly ye lie." "Away wi' beguiling!" cried the youth, smiling Off went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee, The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing, Fair stood the loved maid wi' the darkrolling ee. Down by the burnie where flowers the "Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing, haw tree: Is it my true love here that I see?" "O Jamie, forgie me; your heart's constant to me; And 'tis plased that I am, and why not, to be sure? I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory frae thee." HECTOR MACNEILL. O'More. 'Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've Sure I've thrash'd, for your sake, Dinny And I've made myself, dhrinkin' your So I think, after that, I may talk to the priest." Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck, So soft and so white, without freckle or speck; And he look'd in her eyes, that were And he kiss'd her sweet lips-don't you beaming with light, think he was right? Now, Rory, leave off, sir, you'll hug me no more, That's eight times to-day that you've kiss'd me before." "Then here goes another," says he, "to For there's luck in odd numbers," says SAMUEL LOVER. "don't THE LOW-BACKED CAR. Upon a truss of hay; For I half gave a promise to soothering A low-back'd car she drove, and sat The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be But when that hay was blooming grass, bound." And deck'd with flowers of spring, Faith!" says Rory, "I'd rather love you No flower was there that could compare than the ground." "Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go; Sure I dhrame every night that I'm hating you so." "Och!" says Rory, "that same I'm delighted to hear, For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear. So, jewel, keep dhramin' that same till you die, With the blooming girl I sing. Never ask'd for the toll, In battle's wild commotion, The proud and mighty Mars And bright mornin' will give dirty night While Peggy, peaceful goddess, the black lie; Has darts in her bright eye |