That heart, where motley follies blend,
     Was sternly still to Honour true: 
     To prove Clarinda’s fondest friend,
     Was what a lover sure might do.

     [Footnote 1:  A grass-widow, Mrs. M’Lehose.]

     The Muse his ready quill employed,
     No nearer bliss he could pursue;
     That bliss Clarinda cold deny’d—­
     “Send word by Charles how you do!”

     The chill behest disarm’d his muse,
     Till passion all impatient grew: 
     He wrote, and hinted for excuse,
     ’Twas, ’cause “he’d nothing else to do.”

     But by those hopes I have above! 
     And by those faults I dearly rue! 
     The deed, the boldest mark of love,
     For thee that deed I dare uo do!

     O could the Fates but name the price
     Would bless me with your charms and you! 
     With frantic joy I’d pay it thrice,
     If human art and power could do!

     Then take, Clarinda, friendship’s hand,
     (Friendship, at least, I may avow;)
     And lay no more your chill command,—­
     I’ll write whatever I’ve to do.

1788

Love In The Guise Of Friendship

     Your friendship much can make me blest,
     O why that bliss destroy! 
     Why urge the only, one request
     You know I will deny!

     Your thought, if Love must harbour there,
     Conceal it in that thought;
     Nor cause me from my bosom tear
     The very friend I sought.

Go On, Sweet Bird, And Sooth My Care

     For thee is laughing Nature gay,
     For thee she pours the vernal day;
     For me in vain is Nature drest,
     While Joy’s a stranger to my breast.

Clarinda, Mistress Of My Soul

     Clarinda, mistres of my soul,
     The measur’d time is run! 
     The wretch beneath the dreary pole
     So marks his latest sun.

     To what dark cave of frozen night
     Shall poor Sylvander hie;
     Depriv’d of thee, his life and light,
     The sun of all his joy?

     We part—­but by these precious drops,
     That fill thy lovely eyes,
     No other light shall guide my steps,
     Till thy bright beams arise!

     She, the fair sun of all her sex,
     Has blest my glorious day;
     And shall a glimmering planet fix
     My worship to its ray?

I’m O’er Young To Marry Yet

     Chorus.—­I’m o’er young, I’m o’er young,
     I’m o’er young to marry yet;
     I’m o’er young, ’twad be a sin
     To tak me frae my mammy yet.

     I am my mammny’s ae bairn,
     Wi’ unco folk I weary, sir;
     And lying in a man’s bed,
     I’m fley’d it mak me eerie, sir. 
     I’m o’er young, &c.