« PredošláPokračovať »
O bonny lass ! have but the grace ... ITE
4,i! 14,5 1, Your joys maun flit, if ye commit
) The crying sin of murder.
My wand'ring ghaist will ne'er get rest,
I'll study to delight ye
around with love thus crown'd,
On Leader-haughs and Yarrow.
O sweetest Sue! 'tis only you
To grant this best of blisses.
Would blast me in the blossom:
I'll flourish in thy bosom. grés i
is1 I have no better authority than tradition for ascribing this song to the pen of William Crawford. It was printed in Allan Ramsay's collection without any token of age or author; and though a pretty song, it is far inferior to the ancient song of “Leader Haughs and Yarrow," which seems to have suggested it. I am afraid that few ladies have an imagination so sensitive as to be
alarmed into love and matrimony with the terror of a visitation from their lover's ghost ; and that a lover who reinforces his persuasions with threats of self-destruction, if the lady continues cruel, is in a fair way of becoming a subject for the sheriff's examination, if there be any sincerity in his nature.
If love's a sweet passion, why does it torment?
I grasp her hands gently, look languishing down,
prove By some willing mistake to discover her love ;
1 When in striving to hide, she reveals all her flame, And our eyes tell each other what neither dare name.
How pleasing her beauty! how sweet are her charms !
And to beauty's bright standard all heroes must yield, For 'tis beauty that conquers, and wins the fair field.
I found this very pleasing song in Alan Ramsay's collection, bearing the mark denoting the author's name unknown. I have some suspicion that it is an English production ; but as it has been rejected by Dr. Aikin, and other southern editors, I admit it gladly. Like a borderer of old, whose inheritance was a matter of national contest, it may rank under either the thistle or the rose. These two lines would do honour to any song:
I grasp her hands gently, look languishing down, And, by passionate silence, I make my love known.
THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.
I've seen the smiling
And felt her decay:
It is fled far away.
I've seen the Forest,
Both pleasant and gay:
And a' wede away.
I've seen the morning
Before the mid-day:
As they roamed on their way.
Oh, fickle Fortune!
Poor sons of a day?
Are a' wede away.
This song has found many admirers, and the subject of it has found many poets. It was written by Miss Rutherford, daughter of Rutherford of Fairnalie, in Selkirkshire- no one has ever mentioned it without praise, and no collection is thought complete that wants it. I prefer the song on the same subject by Miss Jane Elliott-nature always surpasses art; yet the union of the two is oftentimes exceedingly graceful and engaging.
I've heard a lilting
Before the dawn of day;
, : ༔ At bughts in the morning, Nae blithe lads are scorning;
And hies her away.