Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas, forever! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I’ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee!

ROBERT BURNS.

O, MY LUVE’S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE.

O, my Luve’s like a red, red rose
  That’s newly sprung in June: 
O, my Luve’s like the melodie
  That’s sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
  So deep in luve am I: 
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
  Till a’ the seas gang dry: 

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear. 
  And the rocks melt wi’ the sun: 
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
  While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve! 
  And fare thee weel awhile! 
And I will come again, my Luve,
  Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.

ROBERT BURNS.

MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART.

Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, O, give me back my heart! 
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest! 
Hear my vow before I go,
  [Greek:  Zoe moy sas hagapo.][2]

By those tresses unconfined,
Wooed by each AEgean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks’ blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
  [Greek:  Zoe moy sas hagapo.]

By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love’s alternate joy and woe,
  [Greek:  Zoe moy sas hagapo.]

Maid of Athens!  I am gone. 
Think of me, sweet! when alone. 
Though I fly to Istambol,
Athens holds my heart and soul: 
Can I cease to love thee?  No!
  [Greek:  Zoe moy sas hagapo.]

LORD BYRON.

  [2] Zoe mou, sas agap[-o]; My life.  I love thee.

SONG.

     OF THE YOUNG HIGHLANDER SUMMONED FROM HIS BRIDE
     BY THE “FIERY CROSS OF RODERICK DHU.”

     FROM “THE LADY OF THE LAKE.”

The heath this night must be my bed,
The bracken curtain for my head,
My lullaby the warder’s tread,
  Far, far from love and thee, Mary;
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid
My couch may be my bloody plaid,
My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid! 
  It will not waken me, Mary!

I may not, dare not, fancy now
The grief that clouds thy lovely brow,
I dare not think upon thy vow,
  And all it promised me, Mary. 
No fond regret must Norman know;
When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,
His heart must be like bended bow,
  His foot like arrow free, Mary!