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But love is a far sweeter flower

Amid life's thorny path o' care.

The pathless wild, and wimpling burn,

Wi’ Chloris in my arms, be mine ; And I, the world, nor wish, nor scorn,

Its joys and griefs alike resign.


On the blank leaf of a copy of his Poems presented

to a Lady, whom he had often celebrated under the name of Chloris.

'Tis Friendship’s pledge, my young, fair Friend,

Nor thou the gift refuse, Nor with unwilling ear attend

The moralizing muse.

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms,

Must bid the world adieu, (A world 'gainst peace in constant arms)

To join the friendly few.

Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast,

Chill came the tempest's lower ; (And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast

Did nip a fairer flower).

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more,

Still much is left behind;
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store,

The comforts of the mind!

Thine is the self-approving glow,

On conscious honour's part ;
And, dearest gift of heaven below,

Thine friendship's truest heart.

The joys refin’d of sense and taste,

With every muse to rove : And doubly were the poet blest

These joys could he improve.


Tune, 'Let me in this ae night."

FORLORN, my love, no comfort near,
Far, far from thee, I wander here;
Far, far from thee, the fate severe

At which I most repine, love.


O wert thou, love, but near me,
But néar, near, near me ;
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me,

And mingle sighs with mine, love.

Around me scowls a wintry sky,
That blasts each bud of ope and joy ;
And shelter, shade, nor home have I,
Save in those arms of thine, love.

O wert, &c.

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part,
To poison fortune's ruthless dart-
Let me not break thy faithful heart,
And say that fate is mine, love.

O wert, &c.

But dreary tho’ the moments fleet,
O let me think we yet shall meet !
That only ray of solace sweet
Can on thy Chloris shine, love.

O wert, &c.


Tune, . The Lothian Lassie.'

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,

And sair wi' his love he did deave me ;
1 said there was naething I hated like men,

The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me, believe
The deuce gae wi’m, to believe me.


He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black e'en,

And vow'd for my love he was dying ;
I said he might die when he liked, for Jean,

The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying,
The Lord forgie me for lying !

A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird,

And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers: I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd,

But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, But thought I might hae waur offers.

But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less,

The deil tak his taste to gae near her!
He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could

bear her,
Gucss ye how, the jad! I could bear ber.

But a'the niest weck as I fretted wi' care,

I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock,
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there,

I glow’rd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock,
I glow'rd as I'd seen a warlock.

But owre my left shouther 1 gae him a blink,

Least necbors might say I was saucy ;
My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink,

And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie,
And vow'd I was his dear lassie.

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet,

Gin she had recover'd her hearin,
And how her new shoon fit her auld shackl't feet,

But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin, a swearin,
But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin,

He begged, for Gudesake! I wad be his wife,

Or else I would kill him wi' sorrow :
So c'en to preserve the poor body in life,

I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow,


Tune, The Caledonian Hunt's Delight.'

Why, why tell thy lover,

Bliss he never must enjoy?
Why, why undeceive him,

And give all his hopes the lie?

O why, while fancy, raptur’d, slumbers,

Chloris, Chloris all the theme;
Why, why wouldst thou cruel,

Wake thy lover from his dream ?


Tune, 'Balinamona ora.'

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms,
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms :
0, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms,
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms.


Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey, for a lass

wi' a tocher, Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher; the nice yellow

guineas for me.

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