Cost me a dollar,
An' a glass o' canary ;
An, oh, for a kiss
Of John Hay's bonnie Mary!
John Hay, hoch, hey,
John Hay's bonnie Mary;
What wad I gie
For John Hay's bonnie Mary!
Her father was handsome,
Her mother was tall;
But as for their daughter,
She's the flower o' them all.
She's handsome and sprightly,
Genteel but not saucy;
I wad gang the warld
Wi' John Hay's bonnie lassie.
THY FATAL SHAFTS.
TOBIAS SMOLLETT, the novelist, born 1721, died 1774.
THY fatal shafts unerring move,
I bow before thine altar, Love!
I feel thy soft resistless flame
Glide swift through all my vital frame.
For while I gaze my bosom glows,
My blood in tides impetuous flows;
Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll,
And floods of transport 'whelm my soul.
My falt'ring tongue attempts in vain
In soothing murmurs to complain;
My tongue some secret magic ties,
My murmurs sink in broken sighs.
Condemn'd to nurse eternal care,
And ever drop the silent tear;
Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh,
Unfriended live, unpitied die!
DR. THOMAS BLACKLOCK, "the blind poet," born 1721, died 1791.
YE rivers so limpid and clear,
Who reflect, as in cadence you flow, All the beauties that vary the year,
All the flow'rs on your margins that grow; How blest on your banks could I dwell, Were Margret the pleasure to share, And teach your sweet echoes to tell
With what fondness I doat on the fair!
Ye harvests, that wave in the breeze
As far as the view can extend;
Ye mountains, umbrageous with trees,
Whose tops so majestic ascend;
Your landscape what joy to survey,
Were Margret with me to admire ;
Then the harvest would glitter how gay,
How majestic the mountains aspire!
In pensive regret whilst I rove,
The fragrance of flow'rs to inhale; Or catch, as it swells from the grove,
The music that floats on the gale:
Alas, the delusion how vain!
Nor odours nor harmony please
A heart agonising with pain,
Which tries every posture for ease.
If anxious to flatter my woes,
Or the languor of absence to cheer,
Her breath I would catch in the rose,
Or her voice in the nightingale hear;
To cheat my despair of its prey,
What object her charms can assume!
How harsh is the nightingale's lay!
How insipid the rose's perfume!
Ye zephyrs that visit my fair,
Ye sunbeams around her that play,
Does her sympathy dwell on my care?
Does she number the hours of my stay?
First perish ambition and wealth,
First perish all else that is dear,
Ere one sigh should escape her by stealth,
Ere my absence should cost her one tear.
When, when shall her beauties once more
This desolate bosom surprise ?
Ye fates, the blest moments restore
When I bask'd in the beams of her eyes;
When with sweet emulation of heart,
Our kindness we struggled to show;
But the more that we strove to impart,
We felt it more ardently glow.
BENEATH a green shade a lovely young swain
Ae evening reclined to discover his pain;
So sad yet so sweetly he warbled his woe,
The winds ceased to breathe, and the fountain to flow;
Rude winds wi' compassion could hear him complain,
Yet Chloe, less gentle, was deaf to his strain.
How happy, he cried, my moments once flew,
Ere Chloe's bright charms first flash'd in my view!
Those eyes then wi' pleasure the dawn could survey,
Nor smiled the fair morning mair cheerful than they.
Now scenes of distress please only my sight;
I'm tortured in pleasure, and languish in light.
Through changes in vain relief I
All, all but conspire my griefs to renew ;
From sunshine to zephyrs and shades we repair-
To sunshine we fly from too piercing an air;
But love's ardent fire burns always the same,
No winter can cool it, no summer inflame.
But see the pale moon, all clouded, retires;
The breezes grow cool, not Strephon's desires;
I fly from the dangers of tempest and wind,
Yet nourish the madness that preys on my mind.
Ah, wretch! how can life be worthy thy care?
To lengthen its moments but lengthens despair.
SIR GILBERT ELLIOT of Minto, born 1722, died 1777, first Earl of Minto.
Printed in Yair's "Charmer," 1749, and in Herd's Collection.
Air-"My apron, dearie."
My sheep I neglected-I lost my sheep-hook,
And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook ;
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove;
For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love.
Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do?
Why left I Amynta? why broke I my vow?
Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore,
And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more.
Through regions remote in vain do I rove,
And bid the wide ocean secure me from love:
Oh, fool, to imagine that aught could subdue
A love so well founded, a passion so true!
Oh, what, &c.
Alas! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine;
Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine:
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain;
The moments neglected return not again.
Oh, what, &c.
AH, THE POOR SHEPHERD'S MOURNFUL FATE!
WILLIAM HAMILTON of Bangour. From the "Tea-Table Miscellany," 1724.
Ан, the poor shepherd's mournful fate,
When doom'd to love and doom'd to languish,
To bear the scornful fair one's hate,
Nor dare disclose his anguish !
Yet eager looks and dying sighs
My secret soul discover,
While rapture trembling through mine eyes
Reveals how much I love her.
The tender glance, the reddening cheek
O'erspread with rising blushes,
A thousand various ways they speak,
A thousand various wishes.
For, oh, that form so heavenly fair,
Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling;
That artless blush and modest air,
So fatally beguiling ;
Thy every look and every grace,
So charm whene'er I view thee,—
Till death o'ertake me in the chase,
Still will my hopes pursue thee.
Then, when my tedious hours are past,
Be this last blessing given,
Low at thy feet to breathe my last,
And die in sight of heaven.
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