Now read me right, ye gentle anes,
Nor deem my lesson hollow:
The deepest river silent rins,
The babbling brook is shallow.
To Isabel.
[Francis Bennoch.]
Oh, were I as I ance ha'e been,
An' ye as ye are now,
I'd fainly fauld ye in my arms,
An' kiss your bonnie brow!
I'd kiss your bricht and bonnie brow,
An' drink life frae your e'en;
But, oh, this canna be, for now
I'm no' asl ha'e been!
Your life is like the living sun,
That gi'es life to the plain;
Though clouds awhile may dim his smile,
He'll brighter beam again.
I wouldna be the cloud that comes
Atween your love an' ye;
Your life's sweet light—the light o' lo'e,
Lo'e glentin' frae the e'e.
Wi' brother's lo'e I'll lo'e ye still
Nor seek your heart to win;
For less to think, an' mair to do,
In me wad be a sin:
But there can be nae sin, sweet lass,
In praying, while awa',
That joys frae ye may never pass,
But blessings on ye fa'!
O Mary, turn awa’.
[Air, "What ails this heart o' mine?"]
O, Mary, turn awa'
That bonnie face o' thine,
And dinna, dinna shaw that breast,
That never can be mine.
Can aught o' warld's gear
E'er cool my bosom's care?
Na, na, for ilka look o' thine,
It only feeds despair.
Then, Mary, turn awa',
That bonnie face o' thine;
O dinna, dinna shaw that breast,
That never can be mine!
Wi' love's severest pangs
My heart is laden sair,
And o'er my breast the grass maun grow,
Ere I am free frae care.
The Tocherless Lass.
[Alex. Buchanan.—Here first printed.]
Driegh to me are the hours I'm an unwoo'd maid,
Lingering in bloom like a rose in the shade;
Folks a' say I'm bonnie, but beauty will fade,
Gin they lea' me to linger an unwoo'd maid.
My temper is guid, I've twa dancin' black een,
A mou' made for kissin', a roun' dimpled chin,
A mind, fain to mak' a man happy an' bein,
But I want warl's charm, I'm a tocherless quean.
To win me an wooer, ilk effort I try,
I ogle the lads but my glances they shy,
I bait me wi' smiles, for to catch them gaun by,
But fruitless my fishin', nae laddie looks nigh.
But what needs I mourn though I get na a mate,
Or think I am slichted though lanely my state—
Love aft leives an hour an' then dees unto hate,
Could I think it, I'm far better wantin' a mate.
But losh, my heart warms ilka time that I see
A lass wi' her lad gaun at nicht ower the lea,
Their keekin', an' kissin', an smirkin', an' glee,
Is enough to mak' mad maidens aulder than me.
A steed, a steed.
[William Motherwell.]
A Steed! a steed of matchless speede!
A sword of metal keene!
Al else to noble heartes is drosse—
Al else on earth is meane.
The neighynge of the war-horse prowde,
