Page:Lament of Flora M'Donald.pdf/5

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'Tis she does the virgins excel;
No beauty with her may compare;
Love's graces around her do dwell;
She's fairest where thousands are fair.
Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray?
Oh! tell me at noon where they feed?
Shall I seek thee on sweet winding Tay,
Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed?

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GO, PLAINTIVE SOUNDS.

Go, plaintive sounds! and to the fair,
My secret wounds impart,
Tell all I hope, tell all I fear,
Each motion in my heart.
But she methinks is list'ning now,
To some enchanting strain,
The smile that triumphs o'er her brow,
Seems not to heed my pain.

Yes, plaintive sounds, yet, yet delay,
Howe'er my love repine,
Let that gay minute pass away,
The next perhaps is thine.
Yes, plaintive sounds, no longer crost,
Your griefs shall soon be o'er,
Her cheek undimpled now has lost,
The smile it lately wore.

Yes, plaintive sounds, she now is yours,
'Tis now your time to move;
Easy to soften all her pow'rs,
And he that softens love.