SONG. Tune, The Quaker's wife.' THINE am I, my faithful fair, 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. SONG. Tune, Jo Janet.' HUSBAND, husband, cease your strife, 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, I'll desert my sov'reign lord, 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, 'Nancy, Nancy; "Strength to bear it will be given, 'My spouse, Nancy.' Well, sir, from the silent dead, 'I'll wed another, like my dear Nancy, Nancy; "Then all hell will fly for fear, 'My spouse, Nancy.' SONG Air, 'The Sutor's Dochter.' WILT thou be my dearie? When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, Wilt thou let me cheer thee? Only thou, I swear and vow, Shall ever be my dearie. Lassie, say thou lo❜es me; If it winna, canna be, VOL. XXXVIII. Hh Thou, for thine may choose me, BANKS OF CREE. HERE is the glen, and here the bower, '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! VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH A PRESENT OF SONGS. HERE, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast, 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,' &c. How can my poor heart be glad, |