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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:
HUSBAND, husband, cease your strife,
Nor longer idly rave, sir; ThoʻI 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 sovoreign lord,
And so, good b’ye allegiance !
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 l'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,' &c.
How can my poor heart be glad,