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Tune, The Quaker's wife.'
THINE am I, my faithful fair,
Thine, my lovely Nancy : Ev'ry pulse along my veins
Ev'ry roving fancy.
To thy bosom lay my heart,
There to throb and languish : Tho' despair had wrung its core,
That would heal its anguish.
Take away these rosy lips,
Rich with balmy treasure : Turn away thine eyes of love,
Lest I die with pleasure.
What is life when wanting love?
Night without a morning: Love's the cloudless summer sun,
Nature gay adorning.
Tune, 'Jo Janet.'
HUSBAND, husband, cease your strife,
Nor longer idly rave, sir; Tho’I am your wedded wife,
Yet I am not your slave, sir.
• One of two must still obey,
Nancy, Nancy; • Is it man or woman, say,.
My spouse, Nancy?'
If 'tis still the lordly word,
Service and obedience; I'll desert my sov'reign lord,
And so, good b’ye allegiance !
• Sad will I be, so bereft,
Nancy, Nancy; Yet I'll try to make a shift, • My spouse, Nancy.'
My poor heart then break it must,
My last hour I'm near it: When you lay me in the dust,
Think, think how you will bear it.
I will hope and trust in Heaven,
Strength to bear it will be given,
Well, sir, from the silent dead,
Still I'll try to daunt you ; Ever round your midnight bed
Horrid sprites shall haunt you.
"I'll wed another, like my dear
* Nancy, Nancy ; « Then all hell will fly for fear,
My spouse, Nancy.'
Air, 'The Sutor's Dochter.'
Wilt thou be my dearie ?
Lassie, say thou lo’es me ;
If it winna, canna be,
Thou, for thine may choose me,
BANKS OF CREE.
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 ere 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.
VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH A
PRESENT OF SONGS.
HERE, where the Scottish muse immortal lives,
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, Accept the gift; tho' humble he who gives,
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind.
So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast,
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among'; But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest,
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song.
Or pity's notes, in luxury of tears,
As modest want the tale of woe reveals; While conscious virtue all the strain endears,
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals.
ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY.
Tune, “O'er the Hills,' Suc.
How can my poor heart be glad,