Слике страница
PDF

Although thou maun never be mine,

Although even hope is denied ; "Tis sweeter for thee despairing, Than aught in the world beside-Jessy!

Here's a health, &c.

I mourn through the gay, gaudy day,

As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms; But welcome the dream o'sweet slumber, For then I am lock'd in thy arms-Jessy!

Here's a health, &c.

I guess by the dear angel smile,

I guess by the love-rolling e'e ; But why urge the tender confession 'Gainst fortune's fell, cruel decree-Jessy!

Here's a health, &c.

THE BANKS O' DOON.
YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair;
How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae weary, fu' o' care! Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,

That wantons through the flowering thorn; Thou mind'st me o' departed joys,

Departed never to return.

[ocr errors]

SONG.

AE fond kiss and then we sever ;
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
Who shall say that fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy;
But to see her was to love her;
Love but her, and love for ever,
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.
Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest !
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peaee, enjoyment, love, and pleasure !
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

MY JEAN
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,

I dearly like the west,
For there the bonnie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best :
Though wild woods grow, and rivers row,

And mony a hill between;
But day and night my fancy's flight

Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,

I see her sweet and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air :
There's not a bonnie flower that springs,

By mountain, shaw, or green,
There's not a bonnie bird that sings,

But minds me o' my Jean.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 1785-1806.

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.
SWEET-scented flower! who are wont to bloom

On January's front severe,
And o'er the wintry desert drear

To waft thy waste perfume!
Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;

And, as I twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song :
And sweet the strain shall be and long,

The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lovest to dwell

With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throws across the desert gloom

A sweet decaying smell.
Come, press my lips, and lie with me
Beneath the lowly alder-tree;

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude,
So peaceful and so deep.

And, hark! the wind-god, as he flies,

Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,

Mysterious music dies.
Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf-altar of the dead;
My grave shall be in yon lone spot,

Where as I lie, by all forgot,
A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES.
DING-DONG! ding-dong:
Merry, merry go the bells.

Ding-dong! ding-dong!
Over the heath, over the moor, and over the dale,

“ Swinging slow with sullen roar.” Dance, dance away the jocund roundelay! Ding-dong, ding-dong, calls us away.

Round the oak, and round the elm,

Merrily foot it o'er the ground!
The sentry ghost it stands aloof,
So merrily, merrily foot it round.

Ding-dong! ding-dong!
Merry, merry go the bells,
Swelling in the nightly gale,

The sentry ghost,

It keeps its post,
And soon, and soon our sports must fail:
But let us trip the nightly ground,
While the merry, merry bells ring round.
Hark! hark! the death-watch ticks;
See, see, the winding-sheet!

Our dance is done,

Our race is run,
And we must lie at the alder's feet!

Ding-dong! ding-dong!
Merry, merry go the bells,
Swinging o'er the weltering wave!

And we must seek

Our deathbeds bleak, Where the green sod grows upon the grave.

The Goddess of Consumption. Come, Melancholy, sister mine!

Cold the dews, and chill the night!
Come from thy dreary shrine!
The wan moon climbs the heavenly height,

And underneath the sickly ray,
Troops of squalid spectres play,
And the dying mortals' groan
Startles the Night on her dusky throne.
Come, come, sister mine!
Gliding on the pale moonshine :

We'll ride at ease,

On the tainted breeze,
And, oh! our sport will be divine.

The Goddess of Melancholy.
Sister, from my dark abode,
Where nests the raven, sits the toad,
Hither I come at thy command :
Sister, sister, join thy hand !
Sister, sister, join thy hand!
I will smooth the way for thee,
Thou shalt furnish food for me.
Come, let us speed our way
Where the troops of spectres play.
To charnel-houses, churchyards drear,
Where Death sits with a horrible leer,
A lasting grin on a throne of bones,
And skim along the blue tombstones.

Come, let us speed away,
Lay our snares, and spread our tether!

I will smooth the way for thee,
Thou shalt furnish food for me :

« ПретходнаНастави »