How sweet her face, where ev'ry grace
In heavenly beauty 's planted:
Her smiling e'en, and comely mein,
That nae perfection wanted.
I'll never fret, nor ban my fate,
But bless my bonnie marrow;
If her dear smile my doubts beguile,
My mind shall ken nae sorrow.
Yet though she's fair, and has full share
Of ev'ry charm enchanting,
Each good turns ill, and soon will kill
Poor me, if love be wanting.
O bonnie lass! have but the grace
To think ere ye gae furder,
Your joys maun flit, if ye commit
The crying sin of murder.
My wand'ring ghaist will ne'er get rest,
And day and night affright ye;
But if ye're kind, with joyful mind,
I'll study to delight ye.
Our years around with love thus crown'd,
From all things joy shall borrow;
Thus none shall be more blest than we
On Leader-haughs and Yarrow.
O sweetest Sue! 'tis only you
Can make life worth my wishes,
If equal love your mind can move
To grant this best of blisses.
Thou art my sun, and thy least frown
Would blast me in the blossom;
But if thou shine, and make me thine,
I'll flourish in thy bosom.
I’ll cheer up my heart.
As I was a walking ae May morning,
The fiddlers an' youngsters were making their game,
And there I saw my faithless lover,
And a' my sorrows return'd again.
Well since he is gane, joy gang wi' him;
It's ne'er be he shall gar me complain:
I'll cheer up my heart, and I will get anither;
I'll never lay a' my love upon ane.
I could na get sleeping yestreen for weeping,
The tears ran down like showers o' rain;
An' had na I got greiting my heart wad a broken;
And O! but love's a tormenting pain.
But since he is gane, may joy gae wi' him;
It's never be he that shall gar me complain:
I'll cheer up my heart, and I will get anither;
I'll never lay a' my love upon ane.
When I gade into my mither's new house,
I took my wheel and sat down to spin;
'Twas there I first began my thrift;
And a' the wooers came linking in.
It was gear he was seeking, but gear he'll na get;
And it's never be he that shall gar me complain:
For I'll cheer up my heart, and I'll soon get anither;
I'll never lay a' my love upon ane.
I ha’e lost my love.
[Written by the Ettrick Shepherd, and first published in "The Edinburgh Literary Journal." Music composed by a Gentleman of Glasgow.]
I ha'e lost my love, an' I dinna ken how,
I ha'e lost my love, an' I carena;
For laith will I be just to lie down an' dee,
And to sit down and greet wad be bairnly;
But a screed o' ill nature I canna weel help,
At having been guidit unfairly;
An' weel wad I like to gi'e woman a skelp,
An' yerk their sweet haffets fu' yarely.
O! plague on the limmers, sae sly an' demure,
As pawkie as de'ils wi' their smiling;
As fickle as winter in sunshine and shower,
The hearts of a' mankind beguiling;
As sour as December, as soothing as May,
To suit their ain ends never doubt them;
Their ill fau'ts I couldna tell ower in a day,
But their beauty's the warst thing about them!
Ay, that's what sets up the hale warld in a lowe—
Makes kingdoms to rise an' expire;
Man's might is nae mair than a flaughten o' tow,
Opposed to a bleeze o' reid fire!
'Twas woman at first made creation to bend,
And of nature's prime lord made the pillow!
An' 'tis her that will bring this ill warld to an end—
An' that will be seen an' heard tell o'!
