« AnteriorContinuar »
In all this world, as thinketh me,
As my sweet sweeting.
As my sweet sweeting.
I would not long detain
Nor should thy fellow-saints e'er know
Of thy escape below :
Come, then ! and recreate my sight
With rays of thy pure light;
(And by thy absence I shall know
Whether thy state be so,)
Here's the garden she walked across,
Arm in my arm, such a short while since: A GOLDEN GIRL. .
Hark! now I push its wicket, the moss
Hinders the hinges, and makes them wince. Lucy is a golden girl ;
She must have reached this shrub ere she tumed, But a man, a man, should woo her!
As back with that murmur the wicket swung;
To feed and forget it the leaves among.
Down this side of the gravel walk
She went while her robe's edge brushed the box; And a heart that's over-tender.
And here she paused in her gracious talk
To point me a inoth on the milk-white phlox. Yet the foolish suitors fly
Roses, ranged in valiant row, (Is 't excess of dread or duty ?)
I will never think that she passed you by! From the starlight of her eye,
She loves you, noble roses, I know; Leaving to neglect her beauty!
But yonder see where the rock-plants lie ! Men by fifty seasons taught
This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, Leave her to a young beginner,
Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; Who, without a second thought,
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Whispers, woos, and straight must win her. Its soft meandering Spanish name.
What a name! was it love or praise ? Lucy is a golden girl !
Speech half asleep, or song half awake? Toast her in a goblet brimming !
I must learn Spanish one of these days, May the man that wins her wear
Only for that slow sweet name's sake. On his heart the Rose of Women!
Roses, if I live and do well,
I may bring her one of these days,
To fix you fast with as fine a spell, –
Fit you each with his Spanish phrase.
There, like sunshine over the ground;
And ever I see her soft white fingers
Searching after the bud she found.
Flower, you Spaniard ! look that you grow not, Full, steadfast, stable, and demure,
Stay as you are, and be loved forever.
Mind! the shut pink mouth opens never !
FROM A MS. TEMP. HENRY VIII.
For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle, I THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE.
Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn, and down they nestle :
| THE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Ben Lomond, Is not the dear mark still to be seen ?
And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene,
While lanely I stray in the calm summergloamin', Where I find her not, beauties vanish;
To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flower o' DumWhither I follow her, beauties flee.
blane. Is there no method to tell her in Spanish
| How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom, June'stwice Junesince she breathed it with me?"
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Come, bud ! show me the least of her traces.
| Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Treasure my lady's lightest footfall :
Is lovely young Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. Ah! you may flout and turn up your faces, Roses, you are not so fair after all !
She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie, ROBERT BROWNING.
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain; And far be the villain, divested of feeling,
Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flower o' ON A GIRDLE.
THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL.
On Richmond Hill there lives a lass
More bright than May-day morn, Whose charms all other maids surpass, –
A rose without a thorn.
By dae ar night, the best ov all, To zee my Fanny's smilén fiace; An' dere the stiately trees da grow, A-rocken as the win' da-blow, While she da sweetly sleep below,
In the stillness o' the night.
This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet, • Has won my right good-will ; I'd crowns resign to call her mine,
Sweet lass of Richmond Hill. Ye zephyrs gay, that fan the air,
And wanton through the grove,
I die for her I love.
Who calls this nymph his own ! 0, may her choice be fixed on me!
Mine's fixed on her alone.
An' dere at evemen I da goo,
A-hoppen auver ghiates an' bars,
By twinklen light o' winter stars,
An' zometimes we da slyly catch
In the stillness o' the night.
Young nâighbours' housen down the pliace,
An' I da get a clue to triace
An' I da wish a vield a mile,
O MISTRESS MINE.
O MARY, at thy window be !
It is the wished, the trysted hour ! Those smiles and glances let me see
That make the miser's treasure poor : How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
The lovely Mary Morison.
The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, —
I sat, but neither heard nor saw : Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town, I sighed, and said amang them a',
“Ye are na Mary Morison.”
O MISTRESS mine, where are you roaming ? 0, stay and hear! your true-love's coming
That can sing both high and low; Trip no further, pretty sweeting, Journeys end in lovers' meeting, -
Every wise man's son doth know.
What is love? 't is not hereafter ;
What's to come is still unsure :
THE LOW-BACKED CAR.
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace
Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee? Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee ?
At least be pity to me shown ;
When first I saw sweet Peggy,
'T was on a market day : A low-backed car she drove, and sat
Upon a truss of hay ; But when that hay was blooming grass,
And decked with flowers of spring, No flower was there that could compare
With the blooming girl I sing. As she sat in the low-backed car, The man at the turnpike bar
Never asked for the toll,
But just rubbed his owld poll, And looked after the low-backed car.
IN THE STILLNESS O' THE NIGHT.
Ther 's aone wher I da like to call,