What are the showy treasures?
What are the noisy pleasures?
The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art:
The polish'd jewel's blaze
May draw the wond'ring gaze,
And courtly grandeur bright
The fancy may delight,
But never, never can come near the heart.
But did yen see my dearest Chloris
In simplicity's array;
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is,
Shrinking from the gaze of day?
O then, the heart alarming,
And all resistless charming,
In love's delightful fetters she chains the willing soul!
Ambition would disown
The world's imperial crown,
Even Avarice would deny
His worshipped deity,
And feel through ev'ry vein Love's raptures roll.
The Miller.
[Written, with the exception of the first stanza, which belongs to an oldersong, by Sir John Clerk of Pennycuick, Bart., for nearly fifty years one of the Barons of Exchequer in Scotland. Sir John was much versed in antiquities, and otherwise accomplished. He died in 1755. John Clerk of Eldin, the author of the work on Naval Tactics, was his son, and he was consequently grandfather of the late eccentric Lord Eldin. The song first appeared in "The Charmer," Edinburgh, 1751, Vol. II., but without the last verse, which was afterwards added by the author.]
Merry may the maid be
That marries the miller,
For foul day and fair day
He's aye bringing till her;
Has aye a penny in his purse
For dinner and for supper;
And gin she please, a good fat cheese,
And lumps of yellow butter.
When Jamie first did woo me,
I spier'd what was his calling;
Fair maid, says he, come and see,
Ye're welcome to my dwelling:
Though I was shy, yet I cou'd spy
The truth of what he told me,
And that his house was warm and couth,
And room in it to hold me.
Behind the door a bag of meal,
And in the kist was plenty
Of good hard cakes his mither bakes,
And bannocks were na scanty;
A good fat sow, a sleeky cow
Was standin' in the byre;
Whilst lazy pouss with mealy mou's
Was playing at the fire.
Good signs are these, my mither says,
And bids me tak' the miller;
For foul day and fair day
He's aye bringing till her;
For meal and malt she does na want,
Nor ony thing that's dainty;
And now and then a keckling hen
To lay her eggs in plenty.
In winter when the wind and rain
Blaws o'er the house and byre,
He sits beside a clean hearth stane
Before a rousing fire,
With nut-brown ale he tells his tale,
Which rows him o'er fu' nappy:
Who'd be a king—a petty thing,
When a miller lives so happy?
The Dusty Miller.
[A fragment of an old song given in Johnson's Museum, Part II. 1788. The air is old, and was formerly played as a dancing-tune.]
Hey, the dusty miller,
And his dusty coat!
He will win a shilling,
Ere he spend a groat.
Dusty was the coat,
Dusty was the colour;
Dusty was the kiss,
That I gat frae the miller!
Hey, the dusty miller,
And his dusty sack!
Leeze me on the calling
