Ye dark waste hills, ye brown unsightly plains, SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA1 Extempore Reply to Verses addressed to the Author by a Lady, under the WHEN dear Clarinda, matchless fair, Love, from Clarinda's heavenly eyes, That heart, already more than lost, His pangs the Bard refused to own, Tho' half he wish'd Clarinda knew; That heart, where motley follies blend, 1 A grass-widow, Mrs. M'Lehose. The Muse his ready quill employed, The chill behest disarm'd his muse, But by those hopes I have above! And by those faults I dearly rue! O could the Fates but name the price If human art and power could do! Then take, Clarinda, friendship's hand, SYLVANDER. LOVE IN THE GUISE OF FRIENDSHIP YOUR friendship much can make me blest, Why urge the only, one request You know I will deny! Your thought, if Love must harbour there, Conceal it in that thought; Nor cause me from my bosom tear The very friend I sought. GO ON, SWEET BIRD, AND SOOTH MY CARE FOR thee is laughing Nature gay, For thee she pours the vernal day; CLARINDA, MISTRESS OF MY SOUL CLARINDA, mistress of my soul, The measur'd time is run! To what dark cave of frozen night We part- but by these precious drops, No other light shall guide my steps, She, the fair sun of all her sex, My worship to its ray? I'M O'ER YOUNG TO MARRY YET Chorus.-I'm o'er young, I'm o'er young, I'm o'er young to marry yet; I'm o'er young, 'twad be a sin I AM my mammy's ae bairn, Wi' unco folk I weary, sir; And lying in a man's bed, My mammie coft me a new gown, I'm feared ye'd spoil the lacing o't. Hallowmass is come and gane, The nights are lang in winter, sir, In trowth, I dare na venture, sir. Fu' loud an' shill the frosty wind Blaws thro' the leafless timmer, sir; But if ye come this gate again, TO THE WEAVERS GIN YE GO My heart was ance as blithe and free But a bonie, westlin weaver lad Has gart me change my sang. Chorus. To the weaver's gin ye go, fair maids, I rede you right, gang ne'er at night, My mither sent me to the town, Has gart me sigh and sab. A bonie, westlin weaver lad I sat beside my warpin-wheel, But every shot and every knock, The moon was sinking in the west, But what was said, or what was done, Will ken as weel's mysel! M'PHERSON'S FAREWELL Tune "M'Pherson's Rant." FAREWELL, ye dungeons dark and strong, Chorus.-Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round, O, what is death but parting breath? I've dared his face, and in this place Sae rantingly, &c. Untie these bands from off my hands, And there's no a man in all Scotland Sae rantingly, &c. |