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NE morning very early, one morning in the spring,
I heard a maid in Bedlam who mournfully did fing, Her chains fherattled on her hands while sweetly thus fung fhe, I love my love, because I know my love loves me.
Oh cruel were his parents who fent my love to sea,
O should it please the pitying pow'rs to call me to the sky, I'd claim a guardian angel's charge around my love to fly; To guard him from all dangers how happy should I be For I love my love, because I know my
love loves me.
I'll make a strawy garland, I'll make it wondrous fine,
Oh if I were a little bird to build upon his breaft,
reward should be ; For I love my love, because I know my love loves me.
Oh if I were an eagle, to soar into the sky!
THE henvenderna tilouds were lined with gold,
HE sun was sunk beneath the hill,
The western clouds were lined with
The flocks were penn'd within the fold;
When in the silence of the grove
Who seeks to pluck the fragrant rose
From the hard rock or oozy beach, Who from each weed that barren grows,
Expects the grape or downy peach, With equal faith may hope to find The truth of love in womankind.
Nó herds have I, no fleecy care,
No fields that wave with golden grain, No paitures green, or gardens fair,
A woman's venal heart to gain ; Then all in vain my fighs muit prove Whose whole estate, alas! is love,
How wretched is the faithful youth
Since womens hearts are bought and sold : They aík no vows of facred truth,
Whene’er they figh, they figh for gold. Gold can the frowns of scorn remove ? But I am scorn'd-who have but love.
To buy the gems of India's coast
What wealth, what riches would suffice :
The luftre of thy rival eyes;
Then, MARY, fince nor gems nor ore
Can with thy brighter self compare, Be just, as fair, and value more
Than gems or ore, a heart fincere : Let treasure meaner beauties move ; Who pays thy worth, must pay in love.
WHAT feet are her fimiles upon Tweed?
HAT beauties does Flora disclose ?
Tweed But Mary's still sweeter than those
Both nature and fancy exceed. No daisy nor sweet blushing rose
Nor all the gay flowers of the field, Nor Tweed gliding gently thro' those Such beauty and pleasure can yield.
The warblers are heard in each grove,
The linnet, the lark and the thrush; The blackbird and sweet cooing dove With music enchant every
bush. Come let us go forth to the mead,
Let us see how the primroses spring ; We'll lodge in some village on Tweed,
And love while the feather’d folks fing.
How does my love pass the long day?
Does Mary not tend a few sheep? Do they never carelessly stray,
While happily she lies asleep? Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest,
Kind nature indulging my bliss, To relieve the soft pains of my breast
I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.
'Tis she does the virgins excel,
No beauty with her can compare, Love's graces all round her do dwell,
She's fairest where thousands are fair. Say charmer where do thy flocks stray ?
Oh! tell me at noon where they feed : Shall I seek them on sweet winding Tay,
Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed,