The Book of Scottish Song/The wee primrose

The wee primrose.

My love is like the wee primrose
That smirks sae sweet beneath the thorn,
That modest keeks out frae the leaves,
An' sips the sweets frae dewy morn.
I met her in my early walk,
As by the verdant woods I stray'd,
Whaur nought but artless melody
Had ever charm'd her fragrant shade.

A burnie poppled by her bower,
Whaur nature made a foggy seat—
While resting there she look'd and smiled,
And aye I felt my bosom beat.
I press'd her, smiling, to my lips—
Though she was laith, I pree'd her mou';
And oh, sae sweet, sae virgin pure!—
'Twas hinny mix'd wi' draps o' dew.

Whan gowden clouds float at the dawn,
I view the spot whaur Mary dwells—
That rural spot whaur spotless love
Speaks to the heart which ardent swells.
May nae rude haun molest her youth—
May nae vile e'e disturb her hame—
Whan ocht immodest enters there,
May innocence put guilt to shame.

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