CLARINDA, MISTRESS OF MY SOUL

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
Shall poor Sylvander hie;
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light,
The sun of all his joy.

We part-but by these precious drops,
That fill thy lovely eyes,

No other light shall guide my steps,
Till thy bright beams arise!

She, the fair sun of all her sex,
Has blest my glorious day;
And shall a glimmering planet fix
My worship to its ray?

THINE AM I, MY FAITHFUL FAIR

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 those 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.

MY NANIE'S AWA'

MY NANIE'S AWA'

Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays, And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw, But to me it's delightless-my Nanie's awa'.

The snawdrap and primrose our woodlands adorn,
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn;
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw,
They mind me o' Nanie-and Nanie's awa'.

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn, And thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa'. Give over for pity-my Nanie's awa'.

Come Autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and gray,
And sooth me wi' tidings o' Nature's decay:
The dark, dreary Winter, and wild-driving snaw
Alane can delight me-now Nanie's awa'.

POEM ON SENSIBILITY

SENSIBILITY, how charming,
Dearest Nancy, thou canst tell;
But distress, with horrors arming,
Thou alas! hast known too well!

Fairest flower, behold the lily
Blooming in the sunny ray;
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley,
See it prostrate in the clay.

Hear the woodlark charm the forest, Telling o'er his little joys;

But alas! a prey the surest

To each pirate of the skies.

Dearly bought the hidden treasure
Finer feelings can bestow:
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure
Thrill the deepest notes of woe.