Say on what wonder-beaming soil
Her sportive malice wrought thy form,—
That haughty science long might toil,
Nor learn to fix thy doubtful name!
For this she cull'd, with eager care,
The scatter'd glories of her plan,—
All that adorns the softer fair,
All that exalts the prouder man:
And gay she triumph'd,—now no more
Her works shall daring systems bound;
As though her skill inventive o'er,
She only traced the forms she found.
In vain to seek a kindred race,
Tired through her mazy realms I stray.—
Where shall I rauk thy radiant place?
Thou dear perplexing creature! say!
Thy smile so soft, thy heart so kind,
Thy voice for pity's tones so fit,
All speak thee Woman; but thy mind
Lifts thee where Bards and Sages sit.
The Braes o’ Bedlay.
[Written by Walter Watson, weaver at Chryston, in Stirlingshire, and author of the popular songs, "Sae will we yet," and "Jockie 's far awa'." The braes of Bedlay are situated near Chryston, about seven miles to the north of Glasgow.—Tune, "Hills of Glenorchy."]
When I think on the sweet smiles o' my lassie,
My cares flee awa' like a thief frae the day:
My heart loups light, an' I join in a sang
Amang the sweet birds on the braes o' Bedlay:
How sweet the embrace, yet how honest the wishes,
When luve fa's a-wooin', an' modesty blushes,
Whar Mary an' I meet amang the green bushes,
That screen us sae weel on the braes o' Bedlay.
There's nane sae trig, or sae fair, as my lassie,
An' mony a wooer she answers wi' Nay,
Wha fain wad ha'e her to lea'e me alane,
An' meet me nae mair on the braes o' Bedlay.
I fearna, I carena, their braggin' o' siller,
Nor a' the fine things they can think on to tell her;
Nae vauntin' can buy her, nae threat'nin' can sell her,
It's luve leads her out to the braes o' Bedlay.
We'll gang by the links o' the wild rowin' burnie,
Whar aft in my mornin' o' life I did stray,
Whar luve was invited and care was beguil'd,
By Mary an' me, on the braes o' Bedlay:
Sae lovin', sae movin', I'll tell her my story,
Unmix't wi' the deeds o' ambition for glory,
Whar wide spreadin' hawthorns, sae ancient and hoary,
Enrich the sweet breeze on the braes o' Bedlay.
Afton Water.
[Written by Burns, and inserted in Johnson's Museum. Afton Water is a small stream in Ayrshire, on the banks of which stands Afton Lodge, the residence of Mrs. Stewart, who forms the subject of this song. Currie says, "the song was presented to her in return for her notice, the first he ever received from a person in her rank." Burns, in a single couplet, has left an unfading testimony to the virtues of Mrs. Stewart—then residing at Stair. In the "Brigs o' Ayr," she is introduced as one of the allegorical beings who interrupt the conversation between the Brigs:—
"Benevolence, with mild benignant air,
A female form came from the towers of Stair."]
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream;
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds, in yon flowery den,
Thou green-crested lap-wing, thy screaming forbear,
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear-winding rills;
There daily I wander, as morn rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There oft. as mild evening creeps o'er the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me,
