Thy praise, bonnie lassie, I ever could hear of,
And yet when to ruse ye the neebour lads try,
Though it's a' true they tell ye, yet never sae far off
I could see 'em ilk ane, an' I canna tell why.
When we tedded the hayfield, I raked ilka rig o't,
And never grew wearie the lang simmer day;
The rucks that ye wrought at were easiest biggit,
And I fand sweeter scented aroun' ye the hay.
In har'st, whan the kirn-supper joys mak' us cheerie,
'Mang the lave of the lasses I pried yere sweet mou';
Dear save us! how queer I felt whan I cam' near ye,
My breast thrill'd in rapture, I couldna tell how.
Whan we dance at the gloamin' it's you I aye pitch on,
And gin ye gang by me how dowie I be;
There's something, dear lassie, about ye bewitching,
That tells me my happiness centres in thee.
Phemie.
[Thomas C. Latto.—Here first printed.]
We sat upon a grassy knowe,
My lassie dear an' me,
When round her neck my arms I flung
An' gat her on my knee.
White as the swan's that bonnie neck,
How saft nae words may say,
I lookit fondly in her face,
And gazed the hours away.
The e'enin' cloud that's fring'd wi' gowd
Was match'd wi' Phemie's hair;
The apple bloom,—how saft its tint,
Her cheek was twice as fair.
Her breath was sweeter than the breeze
That plays 'mang new-maun hay;
Her form was gracefu' as a fawn,
An' fresh as openin' day.
Her poutin' lips sae rosy red
'Mang laughin' dimples dwell,
Nae journey-wark were they I trow,
But made by Love himsel'.
Her voice was like a Unty's sang,
Her een were bonnie blue,
And mine drank in the livin' light
That sparkled through the dew.
I kist her twenty times and mair,
Syne took them a' again;
My heart was rinnin owre wi' bliss
That hour she was mine ain.
O monie a day has fled sinsyne,
When first her lips I prest,
But ne'er a wish has stray'd frae her,
In blessing, I am blest.
Our love was bonnie in the bud,
But bonnier in the bloom,—
The morning rose delights the e'e,
The gloamin' brings perfume.
Methuselah's were mony years,
But lived I lang as he,
I'll ne'er forget the raptur'd hour,
I gat her on my knee.
The Light of the Moon.
[Rev. John Logan.]
The day is departed, and round from the cloud
The moon in her beauty appears;
The voice of the nightingale warbles aloud
The music of love in our ears.
Maria, appear! now the season so sweet
With the beat of the heart is in tune;
The time is so tender for lovers to meet
Alone by the light of the moon.
I cannot when present unfold what I feel:
I sigh—can a lover do more?
Her name to the shepherds I never reveal,
Yet I think of her all the day o'er.
Maria, my love! do you long for the grove?
Do you sigh for an interview soon?
Does e'er a kind thought run on me as you rove
Alone by the light of the moon?
Your name from the shepherds whenever I hear
My bosom is all in a glow;
Your voice, when it vibrates so sweet through mine ear,
My heart thrills—my eyes overflow.
Ye powers of the sky, will your bounty divine
Indulge a fond lover his boon?
Shall heart spring to heart, and Maria be mine,
Alone by the light of the moon?
