Love, when shrin'd in nobler natures,
Scorns with doubts to dim its ray,
Shines reveal'd in all our features,
Clear and open as the day;
Nay, prythee then, your fears beguiling,
Smooth the horrors of that face;
Turn this way, and simp'ring, smiling,
Strive to win a lady's grace.
How! still that frown of awful sense?
Ah! honi soit qui mal y pense,
I love my Jean,
As sung by Mr. SINCLAIR.
Of a' the airs the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo'e best:
There wild-woods grow, and rivers flow,
And mony a hill between;
But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair;
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
I hear her charm the air;
There's not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green,
There's not a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.
O blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft.
Amang the leafy trees;
Wi' gentle breath frae muir an' dale
Bring hame the laden bees:
And bring the lassie back to me,
That's aye sae neat an' clean;
Ae blink o' her would banish care,
Sae charming is my Jean.
I see her in the glassy stream
That winds along the vale,
I hear her in sweet echo's voice
That dies along the gale;
I'll love her while a vital spark
Shall shed its latest gleam,
Gay nature's charms would soon depart
If 'twere na for my Jean.
Oh! merry row the Bonnie Bark.
Oh! merry row! Oh! merry row,
The bonnie, bonnie bark!
Bring back my love to calm my wo,
Before the night grows dark.
My Donald wears a bonnet blue,
A bonnet blue, a bonnet blue,
A snow white rose upon it too;
A highland lad is he.
Then merry row, Oh! merry row,
The bonnie, bonnie bark;
Oh! merry row the bonnie, bonnie bark;
And bring him safe to me!
As to the pebbly beach I stray'd,
Where rocks and shoals prevail,
I thus o'erheard a lowland maid,
Her absent love bewail.
A storm arose the waves ran high,
The waves ran high, the waves ran high,
And dark and murky was the sky;
The wind did loudly roar.
But they merry row'd the bonnie bark,
The bonnie bark, the bonnie bark,
They merry row'd the bonnie, bonnie bark,
And brought her love on shore.
The Rural Clown,
How happy lives the rural Clown,
That's far remov'd from noise of town,
Contemns the glories of a crown,
And in his safe retreat
He's pleased in his low degree,
He's rich in decent poverty;
From strife, from care, from business free,
At once, both good and great.
No drums disturb his morning sleep,
He fears no dangers from the deep,
No noisy laws, or courts can keep
Vexation on his mind,-
No trumpets rouse him to the war,
No hopes can bribe, no threats can dare,
From states' intrigues he holds afar,
And liveth unconfined.
Now by some purling stream he lies,
And angles with his hook and flies,
Amidst those sylvan scenes he tries
His spirits to regale ;
Then from some rock, or height, he views
His fleecy flock and teeming cows,
Then tunes his reed, invokes his muse
That waits his humble call.
Then through some shady myrtle grove,
A faithful scene of rural love,
And warbling birds on blooming boughs,
Afford a fresh delight—
Then O! how pleasant is this life,
Bless'd with a chaste and loving wife,
And children prattling, free from strife,
Around his fire-side at night.
Friend of my Soul.
By T. MOORE.
Friend of my soul, this goblet sip,
"Twill chase the pensive tear;
'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip,
But, oh! 'tis more sincere:
Like her delusive beam
"Twill steal away thy mind;
But like affection's dream,
It leaves no sting behind.
Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade,
These flowers were culled at noon;
Like woman's love, the rose will fade,
But, ah! not half so soon!
But, though the flower's decayed,
Its fragrance is not o'er;
But once when love's betrayed,
The heart can bloom no more.
Oh! say not Pleasure waits on Love,
AIR-" Banks and braes of bonnie Doun."
Oh! say not pleasure waits on love,
The foremost of her varied train;
Oh! say not that 'tis sweet to love-
I love, and yet feel nought but pain.
Yet still I'll love, what'er betide,
And if a single joy there be,
"Tis fondly cherished in the pride,
The grateful pride of loving thee.
The Rose of Allandale, The morn was fair, the skies were clear, No breath came o'er the sea, When Mary left her highland cot, And wander'd forth with me: Tho' flowers deck'd the mountain's side, And fragrance fill'd the vale, By far the sweetest flower there, Was the Rose of Allandale.
Where'er I wander'd, east or west,
Tho' fate began to lower,
A solace still was she to me,
In sorrow's lonely hour:
When tempests lash'd our gallant bark,
And rent her shivering sail,
One maiden form withstood the storm,
"Twas the Rose of Allandale.
And when my fever'd lips were parch'd,
On Afric's burning sand,
She whisper'd hopes of happiness,
Andres of distant land;
been a wilderness,
Unblest by fortune's gale,
Had fate not link'd my lot to hers,
The rose of Allandale.
My native Land, good Night.
Adieu! adieu! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;
The night winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea,
We follow in his flight;
Farewell, awhile, to him and thee,
My native land, good night!
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