Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

Oh, when she blesses next your shade,
Oh, when her footsteps next are seen
In flow'ry tracks along the mead,

In fresher mazes o'er the green;

Ye gentle spirits of the vale,

To whom the tears of love are dear,
From dying lilies waft a gale,

And sigh my sorrows in her ear!
Oh, tell her what she cannot blame,
Though fear my tongue must ever bind :
Oh, tell her, that my virtuous flame
Is as her spotless soul refin'd!

Not her own guardian-angel eyes
With chaster tenderness his care,

Not purer her own wishes rise,

Not holier her own thoughts in prayer.
But if at first her virgin fear

Should start at love's suspected name,
With that of friendship soothe her ear—

True love and friendship are the same.

This tender and elegant lyric was written by James Thomson-every body's James Thomson-the author of the Seasons. He shines less in song than in loftier compositions-his verses are fine and polished, but they want the ready, native, and original grace of language which is so peculiar to Scottish song.

THE SPINNING-WHEEL.

As I sat at my spinning-wheel,
A bonny lad was passing by:

I view'd him round, and lik'd him weel,
For troth he had a glancing eye.

My heart new panting 'gan to feel,
But still I turn'd my spinning-wheel.

With looks all kindness he drew near,
And still mair lovely did appear;
And round about my slender waist
He clasp'd his arms, and me embrac❜d:
To kiss my hand syne down did kneel,
As I sat at my spinning-wheel.

My milk-white hands he did extol, And prais'd my fingers lang and small, And said, there was nae lady fair That ever could with me compare. These words into my heart did steal, But still I turn'd my spinning-wheel.

Altho' I seemingly did chide,
Yet he wad never be denied,

But still declar'd his love the mair,

Until my

heart was wounded sair:

That I my love could scarce conceal,
Yet still I turn'd my spinning-wheel.

My hanks of yarn, my rock and reel,
My winnels and my spinning-wheel;
He bade me leave them all with speed,
And
gang with him to yonder mead.

My yielding heart strange flames did feel,
Yet still I turn'd my spinning-wheel.

About my neck his arm he laid,

And whisper'd, Rise, my bonny maid,
And with me to yon hay-cock go,
I'll teach thee better wark to do.
In troth I loo'd the motion weel,
And loot alane my spinning-wheel.

Amang the pleasant cocks of hay,
Then with my bonny lad I lay;
What lassie, young and saft as I,
Could sic a handsome lad deny?
These pleasures I cannot reveal,
That far surpast the spinning-wheel.

This old free song is from Ramsay's collection-and if love triumphs over household rule and domestic industry, the success is very natural and very common.

MY MITHER'S AY GLOWRIN O'ER ME.

My mither's ay glowrin o'er me,
Though she did the same before me;
I canna get leave

To look at my love,

Or else she'll be like to devour me.

Right fain wad I tak ye'r offer,

Sweet sir-but I'll tine my tocher;
Then, Sandy, ye'll fret,

And wyte ye'r poor Kate,
Whene'er ye keek in your toom coffer.

For though my father has plenty
Of siller and plenishing dainty;
Yet he's unco swear

To twin wi' his gear

And sae we had need to be tenty.

Tutor my parents wi' caution,

Be wylie in ilka motion;

Brag weel o' ye'r land,

And there's my leal hand

Win them, I'll be at your devotion.

This song is a felicitous and natural expression of every-day feeling; but it lacks that luxuriant warmth

of fancy that sheds a poetic glow over the young laird's address. The maiden is too prosaic: she looks as if she had chanted her answer while under the chilling influence of her " Mither's glowre." Ramsay, indeed, does not often give us that pure extract of the heart which old Daniel mentions as constituting the very soul of poesy; for he writes not so much from the overflowings of a wayward and sprightly fancy as from the treasured riches of a retentive memory, and an acute observation of his fellow men and of social manners: he is, in short, the poet of mind rather than of nature, and delineates always with a correct and lively, and sometimes with a satiric and humorous pen, the thoughts, and feelings, and conceptions which are peculiar to youthful and amorous spirits.

CAKES O' CROUDY.

Clunie the deddy, and Rethy the monkey,
Leven the hero, and little Pitcunkie :
O where shall ye see, or find such a soudy?
Bannocks of bear meal, cakes of croudy.

Deddy on politics dings all the nation,

As well as Lord Huffie does for his discretion;

And Crawford comes next with his Archie of Levy,
Wilkie, and Webster, and Cherry-trees Davy.

VOL. III.

N

« ZurückWeiter »