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SONG. Ae fond kiss and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her was to love her; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee,
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
The lassie I lo'e best :
wild woods grow, and rivers row, 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 charm the air :
By mountain, shaw, or green,
But minds me o' my Jean.
HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 1785–1806.
TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.
SWEET-scented flower! who are wont to bloom
On January's front severe,
To waft thy waste perfume !
And, as I twine the mournful wreath,
The melody of death.
Come, funeral flower! who lovest to dwell
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
A sweet decaying smell.
And we will sleep a pleasant sleep,
So peaceful and so deep.
A frame of adamant, a soul of fire,
All times their scenes of pompous woes afford,
muriods o'er, Till count
more; Fresh pra
is mind, The wave
And, hark! the wind-god, as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
Mysterious music dies.
The cold turf-altar of the dead;
Where as I lie, by all forgot,
THE DANCE OF THE CONSUMPTIVES,
Swinging slow with sullen roar.” Dance, dance away the jocund roundelay! Ding-dong, ding-dong, calls us away.
Round the oak, and round the elm,
Merrily foot it o'er the ground !
Merry, merry go the bells,
The sentry ghost,
It keeps its post,
Our dance is done,
Our race is run,