Volume Iii Part 4 (1/2)

The proud oak that built thee Was nursed in the dew, Where my gentle one dwells, And stately it grew.

I hew'd its beauty down; Now it swims on the sea, And wafts spice and perfume, My fair one, to thee.

Oh, sweet, sweet 's her voice, As a low warbled tune; And sweet, sweet her lips, Like the rose-bud of June.

She looks to sea, and sighs, As the foamy wave flows, And treads on men's strength, As in glory she goes.

Oh haste, my bonnie bark, O'er the waves let us bound, As the deer from the horn, Or the hare from the hound.

Pluck down thy white plumes, Sink thy keel in the sand, Whene'er ye see my love, And the wave of her hand.

THOU HAST SWORN BY THY G.o.d, MY JEANIE.

Thou hast sworn by thy G.o.d, my Jeanie, By that pretty white hand o' thine, And by a' the lowing stars in heaven, That thou would aye be mine; And I hae sworn by my G.o.d, my Jeanie, And by that kind heart o' thine, By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven, That thou would aye be mine.

Then foul fa' the hands that loose sic bands, And the heart that would part sic love; But there 's nae hand can loose my band But the finger o' G.o.d above.

Though the wee, wee cot maun be my bield, And my claithing e'er sae mean, I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' luve, Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean.

Her white arm wad be a pillow for me, Fu' safter than the down; And luve wad winnow owre us his kind, kind wings, And sweetly I 'll sleep, an' soun'.

Come here to me, thou la.s.s o' my love, Come here and kneel wi' me; The morn is fu' o' the presence o' G.o.d, And I canna pray without thee.

The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers, The wee birds sing kindlie an' hie; Our gudeman leans owre his kale-yard d.y.k.e, And a blithe auld bodie is he.

The Beuk maun be ta'en when the carle comes hame, Wi' the holie psalmodie, And thou maun speak o' me to thy G.o.d, And I will speak o' thee.

YOUNG ELIZA.[9]

Come, maid, upon yon mountain brow, This day of rest I 'll give to you, And clasp thy waist with many a vow, My loved, my young Eliza.

'Tis not that cheek, that bosom bare, That high arch'd eye, that long brown hair, That fair form'd foot, thine angel air,-- But 'tis thy mind, Eliza.

Think not to charm me with thine eye, Those smiling lips, that heaving sigh, My heart 's charm'd with a n.o.bler tie,-- It is thy mind, Eliza.

This heart, which every love could warm, Which every pretty face could charm, No more will beat the sweet alarm, But to my young Eliza.

The peasant lad unyokes his car, The star of even s.h.i.+nes bright and far, And lights me to the flood-torn scaur, To meet my young Eliza.

There is the smile to please, where truth And soft persuasion fills her mouth, While warm with all the fire of youth, She clasps me, young Eliza.

My heart's blood warms in stronger flow, My cheeks are tinged with redder glow, When sober matron, Evening slow, Bids me to meet Eliza.

The bard can kindle his soul to flame, The patriot hunts a deathless name; Give me the peasant's humble fame, And give me young Eliza.