SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA' Extempore Reply to Verses addressed to the Author by a Lady, under the signature of Clarinda." HC VI 66 WHEN dear Clarinda, matchless fair, Love, from Clarinda's heavenly eyes, That heart, already more than lost, To meet that frown he shrunk to do. His pangs the Bard refused to own, Tho' half he wish'd Clarinda knew; That heart, where motley follies blend, The Muse his ready quill employed, 66 Send word by Charles how you do!" The chill behest disarm'd his muse, He wrote, and hinted for excuse, 'Twas, 'cause "he'd nothing else to do." 1 A grass-widow, Mrs. M'Lehose. But by those hopes I have above! 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, O why that bliss destroy! Why urge the only, one request You know I will deny! Your thought, if Love must harbour there, Nor cause me from my bosom tear GO ON, SWEET BIRD, AND SOOTH MY CARE FOR thee is laughing Nature gay, CLARINDA, MISTRESS OF MY SOUL CLARINDA, mistress of my soul, The measur'd time is run! The wretch beneath the dreary pole So marks his latest sun. 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, I'M O'ER YOUNG TO MARRY YET Chorus. I'm o'er young, I'm o'er young, I'm o'er young, 'twad be a sin I AM my mammy's ae bairn, And lying in a strange bed, 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 TO THE WEAVERS GIN YE GO My heart was ance as blithe and free 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, But the weary, weary warpin o't A bonie, westlin weaver lad I sat beside my warpin-wheel, My heart it gae a stoun. To the weaver's, &c. The moon was sinking in the west, But what was said, or what was done, But Oh! I fear the kintra soon 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, 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. |