The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The battle closes thick and bloody; 133 If doughty deeds my lady please And he that bends not to thine eye Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take If gay attire delight thine eye I'll tend thy chamber door all night, If sweetest sounds can win thine ear, But if fond love thy heart can gain, Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, For you alone I strive to sing, Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, GRAHAM OF GARTMORE 134 TO A YOUNG LADY Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid— Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay busy throng: W. COWPER 135 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile- Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks K She starts, she trembles, and she weeps! Her fair hands folded on her breast: —And now, how like a saint she sleeps! A seraph in the realms of rest! Sleep on secure! Above control Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee: And may the secret of thy soul Remain within its sanctuary! S. ROGERS 136 For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove And when we meet a mutual heart Bid us sigh on from day to day, But busy, busy, still art thou, For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer, All other blessings I resign, Make but the dear Amanda mine. J. THOMSON 137 The merchant, to secure his treasure, My softest verse, my darling lyre When Cloe noted her desire That I should sing, that I should play. My lyre I tune, my voice I raise, Fair Cloe blush'd: Euphelia frown'd: Remark'd how ill we all dissembled. M. PRIOR 138 When lovely woman stoops to folly The only art her guilt to cover, O. GOLDSMITH 139 Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon How can ye chant, ye little birds, Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause Luve was true. Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings beside thy mate; Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, And my fause luver staw the rose, R. BURNS 140 THE PROGRESS OF POESY A Pindaric Ode Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. A thousand rills their mazy progress take: Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign; The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar. O Sovereign of the willing soul, And frantic passions hear thy soft control. On Thracia's hills the Lord of War Has curb'd the fury of his car |