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I. LOVE : PERSONAL |
49 |
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While the life beats in my bosom,
Thou shalt mix in ilka throe: Turn again, thou lovely maiden,
Ae sweet smile on me bestow!
Not the bee upon the blossom,
In the pride o' sinny noon ; Not the little sporting fairy
All beneath the simmer moon, Not the poet, in the moment
Fancy lightens in his e'e, Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture,
That thy presence gies to me.
No. 49. There was a /ass, and she was fair.
To its ain tune (Unknown.)
There was a lass, and she was fair,
At kirk and market to be seen When a' our fairest maids were met,
The fairest maid was bonie Jean.
And ay she wrought her country wark,
And ay she sang sae merrilie ; The blythest bird upon the bush
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she !
But hawks will rob the tender joys, That bless the little lintwhite's nest,
And frost will blight the fairest flowers, And love will break the soundest rest.
Young Robie was the brawest lad, The flower and pride of a' the glen,
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye, And wanton naigies nine or ten.
He gaed wi1 Jeanie to the tryste, He danced wi' Jeanie on the down,
And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist,
Her heart was tint, her peace was stown !
As in the bosom of the stream
The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en,
So, trembling pure, was tender love Within the breast of bonie Jean.
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