8
They sought her both by bower and ha’,
The lady was not seen:
She‘s o‘er the Border and awa
Wi‘ Jock o‘ Hazledean.
Oh! 'tis sweet to think.
Oh! ’tis sweet to think, that, where'r we rove,
We are sure to find something blissful and dear
And that, when we’re far from the lips that we love
We have to make love to the lips we are near
The heart, like a tendril, accustom’d to cling,
Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone
But will lean to the nearest, and loveliest thing,
It can twine with itself, and make closely its own.
Then oh! what pleasure, where’er we rove,
To be doom’d to find something still that is dear,
And to know, when from the lips we love,
We have but to make love to the lips we are near.
’Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise,
To make light of the rest, if the rose is not there;
And the world’s so rich in resplendent eyes,
’Twere a pity to limit one’s love to a pair.
Love’s wing and the peacock’s are nearly alike,
