MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE.

Ay, press your hand upon my heart,

And press it mair and mair, Or it will burst the silken twine, Sae strang is its despair.

O, wae's me for the hour, Willie,
When we thegither met!

O, wae's me for the time, Willie,
That our first tryst was set!
O, wae's me for the loanin' green
Where we were wont to gae!

And wae's me for the destinie
That gart me luve thee sae!

O, dinna mind my words, Willie :
I downa seek to blame;
But O, it's hard to live, Willie,

And dree a warld's shame!

Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek,
And hailin' ower your chin
Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,

For sorrow, and for sin?

I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,
And sick wi' a' I see;

I canna live as I ha'e lived,

Or be as I should be.

But fauld unto your heart, Willie,

The heart that still is thine,

And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek
Ye said was red langsyne.

129

130

MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE.

A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,
A sair stoun' through my heart;
O haud me up, and let me kiss

Thy brow ere we twa pairt.
Anither, and anither yet!

How fast my lifestrings break!
Fareweel, fareweel! through yon kirkyard

Step lichtly for my sake!

The lavrock in the lift, Willie,
That lilts far ower our heid,
Will sing the morn as merrilie
Abune the clay-cauld deid;
And this green turf we're sittin' on,
Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen,
Will hap the heart that luvit thee
As warld has seldom seen.

But O, remember me, Willie,
On land where'er ye be;

And O, think on the leal, leal heart,
That ne'er luvit ane but thee!

And O, think on the cauld, cauld mools
That fyle my yellow hair,

That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin

Ye never sall kiss mair!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

132

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountains yields.

There will we sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown, made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold:

A belt of straw, and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing,
For thy delight each May morning :
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

CHRISTOPHER Marlowe

THE NYMPH'S REPLY.

IF that the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move, To live with thee and be thy love.

But time drives flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold; And Philomel becometh dumb,

And all complain of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's Spring, but sorrow's Fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw, and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps, and amber studs:
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee, and be thy love.