Then strike the wild lyre, let it swell with the strain;
Let the mighty in arms live and conquer again;
Their past deeds of valour shall we not rehearse,
And the charms of our maidens resound in our verse?
I’ll twine a wreath.
[This and the six succeeding songs originally appeared, under different signatures, in "The Literary Reporter," a weekly miscellany edited, published and printed, at Glasgow, by John Graham, in 1822-3, in 2 vols.—The author of the first which we give was William Bennie.]
I'll twine a wreath, I'll twine a wreath,
A garland for thy head—
The green, green leaves that fancy weaves
Shall balmy fragrance shed;
The blooming flowers from sylvan bowers
Shall show a thousand dyes
Around thy brow, like coloured bow
That girds the summer skies.
The heather-bell, from cliff and fell,
I'll seek where zephyr blows;
At early morn, from off the thorn,
I'll cull the new-blown rose;
And lily pale, from verdant vale,
That bends beneath the storm,
Emblem of you, all bathed in dew,
And spotless as thy form.
These, wreathed and bound, shall circle round,
Thy lovely brow of white,
Where glossy hair in tresses fair,
Like clouds of summer night,
Thine eyes o'ershade,—oh, lovely maid!
These eyes that oft beguile
And charm my heart with magic art—
So sweet thy dimpling smile.
This garland gay will soon decay
And lose its lovely hue;
But soul and heart shall rather part
Before I part from you.
This wreath will fade, ah, lovely maid!
With leaves and blossoms wove;
But age or care can ne'er impair
My heart's unchanging love.
The wee primrose.
My love is like the wee primrose
That smirks sae sweet beneath the thorn,
That modest keeks out frae the leaves,
An' sips the sweets frae dewy morn.
I met her in my early walk,
As by the verdant woods I stray'd,
Whaur nought but artless melody
Had ever charm'd her fragrant shade.
A burnie poppled by her bower,
Whaur nature made a foggy seat—
While resting there she look'd and smiled,
And aye I felt my bosom beat.
I press'd her, smiling, to my lips—
Though she was laith, I pree'd her mou';
And oh, sae sweet, sae virgin pure!—
'Twas hinny mix'd wi' draps o' dew.
Whan gowden clouds float at the dawn,
I view the spot whaur Mary dwells—
That rural spot whaur spotless love
Speaks to the heart which ardent swells.
May nae rude haun molest her youth—
May nae vile e'e disturb her hame—
Whan ocht immodest enters there,
May innocence put guilt to shame.
When summer’s sun.
When summer's sun shone warm and bright,
"And saft the westlan' breezes blew,"
As fair a maiden met my sight
As ever poet's fancy drew.
'Twas on the banks of Locher's stream,
Where roses bloom'd in a' their pride,
I saw this lass—so fair her mein—
She might ha'e been a monarch's bride.
Though violets there did flourish fair,
An' on their blades hung draps o' dew;
These sparkling gems outrivalled were
By "her twa een sae bonnie blue."
Her lovely eyes' resplendent beam,
Was far too bright for me to bear:
I turned, abashed, and in the stream
Beheld her form, divinely fair.
