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PHILLIS THE FAIR.
While larks with little wing
Fann'd the pure air, Tasting the breathing spring,
Forth I did fare; Gay the sun's golden eye, Peep'd o'er the mountains high; Such thy morn! did I cry,
Phillis the fair.
In each bird's careless song
Glad did I share; While yon wild flowers among,
Chance led me there. Sweet to the opening day, Rose-buds bent the dewy spray; Such thy bloom ! did I say,
Phillis the fair.
Down in a shady walk
Doves cooing were;
Caught in a snare;
Phillis the fair.
Adown winding Nith I did wander.
ADOWN WINDING NITH I DID WANDER.
Tune-“The mucking o' Geordie's byre.”
ADOwn winding Nith I did wander,
To mark the sweet flowers as they spring; Adown winding Nith I did wander,
Of Phillis to muse an' to sing.
Awa’ wi' your belles an' your beauties,
They never wi' her can compare :
Has met wi' the queen o’the fair.
The daisy amus'd my fond fancy,
So artless, so simple, so wild; Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis !
For she is simplicity's child.
The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer,
Her sweet balmy lip when ’tis prest : How fair an' how pure is the lily,
But fairer an' purer her breast.
Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour,
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie:
Its dewdrop o' diamond her eye.
Her voice is the song of the morning,
That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove, When Phoebus peeps over the mountains,
On music, an' pleasure, an' love.
But, beauty, how frail an' how fleeting
The bloom of a fine summer's day! While worth in the mind o'
BY ALLAN STREAM ICHANC’D TO ROVE.
TUNE“ Allan Water."
[“I walked out yesterday evening with a volume of the Museum in my hand; when turning up ‘Allan Water,' 'What numbers shall the muse repeat,' &c., as the words appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an air, I sat and raved under the shade of an old thorn till I wrote one to suit the measure."-Burns to Thomson.]
By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove
While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi;* The winds were whispering thro' the grove,
The yellow corn was waving ready: I listen’d to a lover's sang,
An' thought on youthfu' pleasures mony; An' aye
the wild-wood echoes rangOh, dearly do I love thee, Annie !
“A mountain, west of Strathallan, 3,009 feet high."-Burus. + “Or, 'Oh, my love Annie's very bonnie.'”-Burns.
Come, let me take thee to my Breast.
Oh, happy be the woodbine bower,
Nae nightly bogle make it eerie; Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,
The place, an' time I met my dearie ! Her head upon my throbbing breast,
She, sinking, said, “ I'm thine for ever!” While mony a kiss the seal imprest,
The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever.
The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae,
The simmer joys the flocks to follow; How cheery thro' her shortening day
Is autumn in her weeds o' yellow! But can they melt the glowing heart,
Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure ? Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart,
Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ?
COME, LET ME TAKE THEE TO MY
COME, let me take thee to my breast,
An' pledge we ne'er shall sunder;
The world's wealth an' grandeur:
An' do I hear my Jeanie own
That equal transports move her?
That I may live to love her.
Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure;
Than sic a moment's pleasure:
I swear I'm thine for ever!
An' break it shall I never !
HAD I A CAVE.
[“You will remember an unfortunate part of our worthy friend Cunningham's story, which happened about three years ago. That struck my fancy, and I endeavoured to do the idea justice as follows."-Burns to G. Thomson, August, 1793. ]
Had I a cave on some wild distant shore,
There would I weep my woes,
Ne'er to wake more !