The Bourbon lilies wax wan as I sail;
America's stars I strike them pale:
The glories of sea and the grandeur of land,
All shall be thine for the wave of thy hand.
Thy shining locks are worth Java's isle-
Can the spices of Saba buy thy smile?
Let kings rule earth by a right divine,
Thou shalt be queen of the fathomless brine.
Meg, muckin' at Geordie's byre,
Wrought as gin her judgment was wrang;
Ilk daud o' the scartle strack fire,
While loud as a lavrock she sang!
Her Geordie had promis'd to marrie,
An' Meg, a sworn fae to despair,
Not dreamin' the job cou'd miscarrie,
Already seem'd mistress an' mair!
My neebours, she sang, aften jeer me,
An' ca' me daft, halucket Meg,
An' say, they expect soon to hear me
I' the kirk, for my fun, get a fleg!
An' now, 'bout my marriage they clatter,
An' Geordie, poor fallow! they ca'
An auld doitit hav'rel!-Nae matter,
He'll keep me aye brankin an' braw!
I grant ye, his face is kenspeckle,
That the white o' his e'e is turn'd out, That his black beard is rough as a heckle, That his mou to his lug's rax'd about; But they needna let on that he's crazie, His pike-staff wull ne'er let him fa': Nor that his hair's white as a daisie, For fient a hair has he ava!
But a weel-plenish'd mailin has Geordie,
An' routh o' gude goud in his kist;
An' if siller comes at my wordie,
His beautie I never wull miss't!
Daft gouks, wha catch fire like tinder,
Think love-raptures ever wull burn!
But wi' poortith, hearts het as a cinder
Wull cauld as an iceshugle turn!
There'll just be ae bar to my pleasure,
A bar that's aft fill'd me wi' fear,
He's sic a hard, near-be-gawn miser,
He likes his saul less than his gear!
But though I now flatter his failin',
An' swear nought wi' goud can compare,
Gude sooth! it sall soon get a scailin'!
His bags sall be mouldie nae mair!
I dreamt that I rade in a chariot,
A flunkie ahint me in green;
While Geordie cry'd out, he was harriet,
An' the saut tear was blindin' his een;
But though 'gainst my spendin' he swear aye,
I'll hae frae him what ser's my turn;
Let him slip awa whan he grows wearie,
Shame fa' me! gin lang I wad mourn!
But Geordie, while Meg was haranguin,
Was cloutin his breeks i' the bauks,
An' whan a' his failins she brang in,
His strang, hazle pike-staff he taks,
Designin to rax her a lounder:
He chanc'd on the lather to shift,
An' down frae the bauks, flat's a flounder,
Flew like a shot-starn frae the lift!
THOU HAST VOW'D BY THY FAITH, MY
Thou hast vow'd by thy faith, my Jeanie,
By that pretty white hand of thine,
And by all the lowing stars in heaven,
That thou wad aye be mine:
And I have sworn by my faith, my Jeanie,
And by that kind heart of thine,
By all the stars sown thick o'er heaven,
That thou shalt aye be mine.
Foul fa' the hands wad loose sic bands,
And the heart wad part sic love;
But there's nae hand can loose the band,
But the finger of Him above.
Though the wee wee cot maun be my bield,
And my clothing e'er sae mean,
I should lap up rich in the faulds of love
Heaven's armfu' of my Jean.
Thy white arm wad be a pillow to me,
Far softer than the down;
And love wad winnow o'er us his kind kind wings, And sweetly we'd sleep and soun'.
Come here to me, thou lass whom I love,
Come here and kneel wi' me,
The morning is full of the presence of God,
And I cannot pray but thee.
The wind is sweet amang the new flowers,
The wee birds sing saft on the tree,
Our goodman sits in the bonnie sunshine,
And a blithe auld bodie is he;
The Beuk maun be ta'en when he comes hame,
Wi' the holie psalmodie,
And I will speak of thee when I pray,
And thou maun speak of me.
Red rowes the Nith 'tween bank and brae,
Mirk is the night and rainie-o,
Though heaven and earth should mix in storm,
My Nanie-o, my Nanie-o;
My kind and winsome Nanie-o,
She holds my heart in love's dear bands,
And nane can do't but Nanie-o.
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