Oh, Poverty.
[From a small volume of "Scottish Songs, by Alexander Hume," published at London in 1835.—Air, "The Posie."]
Eliza was a bonnie lass, an' O, she lo'ed me weel;—
Sic love as canna find a tongue, but only hearts can feel;
But I was poor, her father doure; be wadna look on me—
Oh, poverty! oh, poverty! that love should bow to thee.
I went unto her mother; an' I argued, an' I fleeched;
I spak' o' love an' honesty, an' mair an' mair beseech'd.
But she was deaf to a' my grief, she wadna look on me—
Oh, poverty! oh, poverty! that love should bow to thee.
I neist went to her brother, an' I told him a' my pain:
Oh, he was wae, he tried to say, but it was a' in vain;
Though he was weel in love himsel', nae feeling he'd for me—
Oh, poverty! oh, poverty! that love should bow to thee.
Oh, wealth, it makes the fool a sage, the knave an honest man;
An' cankered grey locks young again, gin he ha'e gear an' lan':
To age maun beauty ope her arms, though wi' a tearfu' e'e—
Oh, poverty! oh, poverty! that love should bow to thee.
But wait a wee, O love is slee, and winna be said nay;
It breaks a' chains except its ain, but it maun ha'e its way;
Auld age was blind, the priest was kind—now happy as can be;
Oh, poverty! oh, poverty! we're wed in spite o' thee.
My Bessie.
[Alex. Hume.—Air, "The Posie." This song, set to a beautiful air, was published in "The Monthly Repository" for May, 1834.]
My Bessie, O, but look upon these bonnie budding flowers,
O, do na they remember thee o' childhood's happy hours,
When we upon this very hill sae aft did row an' play,
An' thou wert like the morning sun, an' life a nichtless day.
The gowans—they were bonnie—how I'd pu' them from the stem,
An' rin in noisy blythesomeness to thee, my Bess, wi' them,
An' place them in thy white, white breast; for which thou'dst smile on me.—
I saw nae mair the gowans then—then saw I only thee.
Like twa fair roses on a tree, we flourished an' we grew;
An' as we grew our loves grew too, for feeling was their dew.
How aft thou'dst thraw thy wee bit arms in love about my neck,
An' breathe young vows, that after years o' sorrow ha'e na brak.
