Volume Ii Part 33 (1/2)
If gay attire delight thine eye I'll dight me in array; I'll tend thy chamber door all night, And squire thee all the day.
If sweetest sounds can win thine ear, These sounds I'll strive to catch; Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysel', That voice that nane can match.
Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; O tell me how to woo thee!
For thy dear sake nae care I'll take Though ne'er another trow me.
But if fond love thy heart can gain, I never broke a vow; Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, I never loved but you.
For you alone I ride the ring, For you I wear the blue; For you alone I strive to sing, O tell me how to woo!
Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; O tell me how to woo thee!
For thy dear sake nae care I'll take Though ne'er another trow me.
Robert Cunninghame-Graham [?--1797?]
”MY HEART IS A LUTE”
Alas, that my heart is a lute, Whereon you have learned to play!
For a many years it was mute, Until one summer's day You took it, and touched it, and made it thrill, And it thrills and throbs, and quivers still!
I had known you, dear, so long!
Yet my heart did not tell me why It should burst one morn into song, And wake to new life with a cry, Like a babe that sees the light of the sun, And for whom this great world has just begun.
Your lute is enshrined, cased in, Kept close with love's magic key, So no hand but yours can win And wake it to minstrelsy; Yet leave it not silent too long, nor alone, Lest the strings should break, and the music be done.
Anne Barnard [1750-1825]
SONG From ”The Duenna”
Had I a heart for falsehood framed, I ne'er could injure you; For though your tongue no promise claimed, Your charms would make me true: Then, lady, dread not here deceit, Nor fear to suffer wrong, For friends in all the aged you'll meet, And lovers in the young.
But when they find that you have blessed Another with your heart, They'll bid aspiring pa.s.sion rest, And act a brother's part: Then, lady, dread not here deceit Nor fear to suffer wrong; For friends in all the aged you'll meet, And brothers in the young.
Richard Brinsley Sheridan [1751-1816]
MEETING
My Damon was the first to wake The gentle flame that cannot die; My Damon is the last to take The faithful bosom's softest sigh: The life between is nothing worth, O cast it from thy thought away!
Think of the day that gave it birth, And this its sweet returning day.
Buried be all that has been done, Or say that naught is done amiss; For who the dangerous path can shun In such bewildering world as this?
But love can every fault forgive, Or with a tender look reprove; And now let naught in memory live But that we meet, and that we love.