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7
Forgive me, ye maids of sweet ⟨Clutha⟩,
My heart is we her that's awa.
O love thou'rt a dear fleeting pleasure;
The sweetest we mortals here know;
But soon is thy heav'n, bright beaming,
O'ercast with the darkness of wo.
As the moon, on the oft-changing ocean,
Delights the lone mariner's eye,
Till red rush the storms of the desert,
And dark billows tumble on high.
THE SPOTLESS MAID
The spotless maid is like the blooming rose,
Which on its native stem unsully'd grows;
But if some hand the tender stalk invades,
Lost its colour and its beauty fades.
Whoever leaves a virtuous maid behind,
Tho' distant—still he views her in his mind;
Reflection tells, that absence must improve
The dear delight of meeting those we love.
