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! forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee;
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
O MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE.
O MY Luve's like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve's like the melodie
That 's sweetly played 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 awhile!
And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left
Shall never part from mine,
Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine.
Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, An equal love may see:
The tear that from thine eyelid streams Can weep no change in me.
I ask no pledge to make me blest
In gazing when alone;
Nor one memorial for a breast
Whose thoughts are all thine own.
Nor need I write to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak:
O, what can idle words avail,
Unless the heart could speak?
THE HEATH THIS NIGHT MUST BE
SONG OF THE YOUNG HIGHLANDER SUMMONED FROM
THE SIDE OF HIS BRIDE BY THE FIERY
CROSS" OF RODERICK DHU.
THE heath this night must be my bed,
The bracken curtain for my head,
My lullaby the warder's tread,
Far, far from love and thee, Mary;
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid
My couch may be my bloody plaid,
My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid!
It will not waken me, Mary!
I may not, dare not, fancy now
The grief that clouds thy lovely brow,
I dare not think upon thy vow,
And all it promised me, Mary.
No ford regret must Norman know;
When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,
His heart must be like bended bow,
His foot like arrow free, Mary.
A time will come with feeling fraught!
For, if I fall in battle fought,
Thy hapless lover's dying thought
Shall be a thought on thee, Mary.
And if returned from conquered foes,
How blithely will the evening close,
How sweet the linnet sing repose,
To my young bride and me, Mary!
ON GOING TO THE WARS.
TELL me not, sweet, I am unkinde,
That from the nunnerie
Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde,
To warre and armes I flee.
True, a new mistresse now I chase, —
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith imbrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you, too, should adore;
I could not love thee, deare, so much, Loved I not honor more.
ADIEU, ADIEU! OUR DREAM OF LOVE- "If to fair India's coast we sail,
But give the cock a blow
Who did begin our woe!"
ANONYMOUS (Chinese). Translation
of WILLIAM R. ALGER.
THE PARTING OF ROMEO AND JULIET.
JULIET. Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree :
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
ROMEO. It was the lark, the herald of the
No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east :
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
JULIET. Yon light is not daylight, I know
It is some meteor, that the sun exhales,
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,
And light thee on thy way to Mantua :
Therefore stay yet, thou need'st not be gone.
ROMEO. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to
death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say, yon gray is not the morning's eye,
'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads :
I have more care to stay than will to go ;-
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.
How is 't, my soul? let's talk, it is not day.
JULIET. It is, it is, hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords, and unpleasing sharps.
Some say, the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us :
Some say, the lark and loathéd toad change
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