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I. LOVE I PERSONAL
The rosebud's the blush o' my charmer, Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest:
How fair and how pure is the lily! But fairer and purer her breast.
Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie:
Her breath is the breath of the woodbine, Its dew-drop o' diamond her eye.
Her voice is the song o' the morning,
That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove,
When Phebus peeps over the mountains On music, and pleasure, and love.
But beauty, how frail and how fleeting!
The bloom of a fine summer's day! While worth in the mind o' my Phillis,
Will flourish without a decay.
No. 52. Here is the glen, and here the dower.
Tune : Banks o/Cree (Unknown.)
Here is the glen, and here the bower
All underneath the birchen shade, The village bell has told the hour—
O, what can stay my lovely maid ? 'Tis not Maria's whispering call—
'Tis but the balmy breathing gale, Mixt with some warbler's dying fall
The dewy star of eve to hail.
It is Maria's voice I hear;—
So calls the woodlark in the grove His little faithful mate to cheer:
At once 'tis music and 'tis love ! And art thou come ? and art thou true ?
O, welcome, dear, to love and me, And let us all our vows renew
Along the flowery banks of Cree.