The tyrant death with grim control
May seize my fleeting breath:
But tearing Peggy from my soul
Must be a stronger death.
TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY.
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day,
Ye would nae been sae shy;
For laik o' gear ye lightly me,
But, trowth, I care na by.
YESTREEN I met you on the moor,
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure:
Ye geck at me because I'm poor,
But fient a hair care I.
O Tibbie, I hae, &c.
I doubt na, lass, but ye may think,
Because ye hae the name o' clink,
That ye can please me at a wink,
Whene'er ye like to try.
O Tibbie, I hae, &c.
But sorrow tak him that's sae mean,
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean,
Wha follows ony saucy quean
That looks sae proud and high.
O Tibbie, I hae, &c.
Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart,
If that he want the yellow dirt,
Ye'll cast your head anither airt,
And answer him fu' dry.
O Tibbie, I hae, &c.
But if he hae the name o' gear,
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier,
Tho' hardly he for sense or lear,
Be better than the kye.
O Tibbie, I hae, &c.
But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice,
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice;
The deil a ane wad spier your price,
There lives a lass in yonder park,
I would nae gie her in her sark,
For thee wi' a' thy thousan' mark;
Ye need na look sae high.
Tibbie, I hae, &c.
CLARINDA, mistress 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?
THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS.
Tune-"SEVENTH OF NOVEMBER."
THE day returns, my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet,
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd,
Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet.
Than a' the pride that loads the tide,
And crosses o'er the sultry line;
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,
Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine.
While day and night can bring delight,
Or nature aught of pleasure give!
While joys above, my mind can move,
For thee, and thee alone, I live!
When that grim foe of life below
Comes in between to make us part;
The iron hand that breaks our band,
It breaks my bliss-it breaks my heart.
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