I LOVE MY JEAN. OF a' the airts the wind can blaw, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best. There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And monie a hill 's between ; But day and night my fancy's flight I see her in the dewy flowers, I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air; There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green; There's not a bonnie bird that sings, ROBERT BURNS. The points of the compass. LOVE'S MEMORY. FROM "ALL 'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, ACT 1. SC. 1. I AM undone there is no living, none, SHAKESPEARE. O, SAW YE BONNIE LESLEY! O, SAW ye bonnie Lesley As 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 forever; 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 lovely That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie ! That we may brag we hae a lass ROBERT BURNS JEANIE MORRISON. I'VE wandered east, I've wandered west, But never, never can forget • Harm. The throssil whusslit in the wood, And on the knowe abune the burn, Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts As ye hae been to me? O, tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine! O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne? I've wandered east, I've wandered west, But in my wanderings, far or near, The fount that first burst frae this heart And channels deeper, as it rins, O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. THE RUSTIC LAD'S LAMENT IN THE O, WAD that my time were owre but, I' the bonnie birken shaw! For this is no my ain life, And I peak and pine away Wi' the thochts o' hame and the young flowers, In the glad green month of May. O, how or by what means may I contrive To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? LINGER not long. Home is not home without How may I teach my drooping hope to live thee: Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn. O, let its memory, like a chain about thee, Gently compel and hasten thy return! Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy staying, Until that blessed time, and thou art here? I'll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends, For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try though dear, Compensate for the grief thy long delaying Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here? Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming, As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell ; When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming, And silence hangs on all things like a spell! All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains ; I will this dreary blank of absence make So may this doomèd time build up in me A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine; So may my love and longing hallowed be, And thy dear thought an influence divine. FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. DAY, IN MELTING PURPLE DYING. Thou, to whom I love to hearken, Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure ; Gifts and gold are naught to me, Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling, Paint to thee the deep sensation, Yet but torture, if comprest Absent still! Ah! come and bless me ! WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE? WHAT ails this heart o' mine? What ails this watery e'e? When thou art far awa', Thou 'lt dearer grow to me; But change o' place and change o' folk May gar thy fancy jee. When I gae out at e'en, Or walk at morning air, Ilk rustling bush will seem to say Then I'll sit down and cry, And live aneath the tree, And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, I'll ca 't a word frae thee. I'll hie me to the bower That thou wi' roses tied, And where wi' mony a blushing bud I strove myself to hide. I'll doat on ilka spot Where I ha'e been wi' thee; And ca' to mind some kindly word By ilka burn and tree. SUSANNA BLAMIRE. A PASTORAL. My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, When Phoebe went with me wherever I went; Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast: Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest! With such a companion to tend a few sheep, To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep; I was so good-humored, so cheerful and gay, My heart was as light as a feather all day; But now I so cross and so peevish am grown, So strangely uneasy, as never was known. My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned, And my heart - I am sure it weighs more than a pound. The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among; Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, 'T was pleasure to look at, 't was music to hear: But now she is absent, I walk by its side, And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide; Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain. My lambkins around me would oftentimes play, And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they ; How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time, When Spring, Love, and Beauty were all in their prime; But now, in their frolics when by me they pass, I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass; Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad, To see you so merry while I am so sad. My dog I was ever well pleased to see Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said, "Come hither, poor fellow;" and patted his head. But now, when he 's fawning, I with a sour look Cry "Sirrah!" and give him a blow with my crook : Will no pitying power, that hears me complain, Or cure my disquiet or soften my pain? move; But what swain is so silly to live without love! And I'll give him another; for why should not | Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair ; Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair. Tray Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe 's away? When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen, How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green! What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, The cornfields and hedges and everything made! But now she has left me, though all are still there, They none of them now so delightful appear: "T was naught but the magic, I find, of her eyes, Made so many beautiful prospects arise. Sweet music went with us both all the wood through, The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. But now she is absent, though still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone : Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Gave everything else its agreeable sound. Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? And where is the violet's beautiful blue? Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile? That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile? Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you drest, And made yourselves fine for- -a place in her breast? You put on your colors to pleasure her eye, How slowly Time creeps till my Phoebe return, While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn! Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread, I could breathe on his wings, and 't would melt down the lead. Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, And rest so much longer for 't when she is here. Ah, Colin old Time is full of delay, Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say. JOHN BYROM. THE SAILOR'S WIFE.* AND are ye sure the news is true? For there 's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop's-satin gown; For I maun tell the baillie's wife That Colin's in the town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My stockin's pearly blue; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, For he 's baith leal and true. Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, And Jock his Sunday coat; There's twa fat hens upo' the coop Been fed this month and mair; And spread the table neat and clean, For wha can tell how Colin fared Bartlett, in his Familiar Quotations, has the following: "The Mariner's Wife is now given, by common consent,' says Sarah Tytler, to Jean Adam, 1710-1765." |