The Lover’s Morning Salute To His Mistress

     Tune—­“Deil tak the wars.”

     Sleep’st thou, or wak’st thou, fairest creature? 
     Rosy morn now lifts his eye,
     Numbering ilka bud which Nature
     Waters wi’ the tears o’ joy. 
     Now, to the streaming fountain,
     Or up the heathy mountain,
     The hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-wanton stray;
     In twining hazel bowers,
     Its lay the linnet pours,
     The laverock to the sky
     Ascends, wi’ sangs o’ joy,
     While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.

     Phoebus gilding the brow of morning,
     Banishes ilk darksome shade,
     Nature, gladdening and adorning;
     Such to me my lovely maid. 
     When frae my Chloris parted,
     Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted,
     The night’s gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o’ercast my sky: 
     But when she charms my sight,
     In pride of Beauty’s light—­
     When thro’ my very heart
     Her burning glories dart;
     ’Tis then—­’tis then I wake to life and joy!

The Winter Of Life

     But lately seen in gladsome green,
     The woods rejoic’d the day,
     Thro’ gentle showers, the laughing flowers
     In double pride were gay: 
     But now our joys are fled
     On winter blasts awa;
     Yet maiden May, in rich array,
     Again shall bring them a’.

     But my white pow, nae kindly thowe
     Shall melt the snaws of Age;
     My trunk of eild, but buss or beild,
     Sinks in Time’s wintry rage. 
     Oh, Age has weary days,
     And nights o’ sleepless pain: 
     Thou golden time, o’ Youthfu’ prime,
     Why comes thou not again!

Behold, My Love, How Green The Groves

     Tune—­“My lodging is on the cold ground.”

     Behold, my love, how green the groves,
     The primrose banks how fair;
     The balmy gales awake the flowers,
     And wave thy flowing hair.

     The lav’rock shuns the palace gay,
     And o’er the cottage sings: 
     For Nature smiles as sweet, I ween,
     To Shepherds as to Kings.

     Let minstrels sweep the skilfu’ string,
     In lordly lighted ha’: 
     The Shepherd stops his simple reed,
     Blythe in the birken shaw.

     The Princely revel may survey
     Our rustic dance wi’ scorn;
     But are their hearts as light as ours,
     Beneath the milk-white thorn!

     The shepherd, in the flowery glen;
     In shepherd’s phrase, will woo: 
     The courtier tells a finer tale,
     But is his heart as true!

     These wild-wood flowers I’ve pu’d, to deck
     That spotless breast o’ thine: 
     The courtiers’ gems may witness love,
     But, ’tis na love like mine.