66 HAD I A CAVE...BY ALLAN STREAM.
Down in a shady walk Doves cooing were, I mark'd the cruel hawk Caught in a snare : So kind may Fortune be, Such make his destiny, He who would injure thee, Phillis the fair.
HAD I a cave on some wild distant shore, Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar; There would I weep my woes,
Till grief my eyes should close, Ne'er to wake more.
Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare All thy fond plighted vows-fleeting as air? To thy new lover hie, Laugh o'er thy perjury, Then in thy bosom try, What peace is there!
By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove, While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi; The winds were whispering thro' the grove, The yellow corn was waving ready:
BY ALLAN STREAM.
I listen'd to a lover's sang,
And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony; And the wild-wood echoes rang
O, dearly do I love thee, Annie!
O, happy be the woodbine bower, Nae nightly bogle mak it eerie ; Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,
The place and time I met my dearie! Her head upon my throbbing breast, She, sinking, said, I'm thine for ever!' While mony a kiss the seal imprest,
The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae, The simmer joys the flocks to follow; How cheery thro' her shortening day
Is autumn in her weeds o' yellow! But can they melt the glowing heart, Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart,
Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure?
WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD.
O, WHISTLE, and I'll come to you, my lad; O, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad: Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, O, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. But warily tent, when ye come to court me, And comena unless the back-yett be a-jee; Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, And come as ye werena comin to me. And come, &c.
At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, Gang by me as tho' that ye car'dna a flie: But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black ee, Yet look as ye werena lookin at me. Yet look, &c.
Aye vow and protest that ye carena for me, And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee; But courtna anither, tho' jokin ye be, For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. For fear, &c.
TUNE-The Collier's Dochter.
DELUDED Swain, the pleasure The fickle Fair can give thee, Is but a fairy treasure,
Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.
The billows on the ocean,
The breezes idly roaming, The clouds' uncertain motion, They are but types of woman. O! art thou not ashamed
To doat upon a feature? If man thou wouldst be named, Despise the silly creature. Go, find an honest fellow;
Good claret set before thee: Hold on till thou art mellow,
And then to bed in glory.
THINE AM I.
TUNE-The Quaker's Wife.
THINE am I, my faithful fair, Thine, my lovely Nancy; Ev'ry pulse along my veins, Ev'ry roving fancy.
To thy bosom lay my heart, There to throb and languish : Tho' despair had wrung its core, That would heal its anguish.
Take away these rosy lips, Rich with balmy treasure: thine eyes of love,
Lest I die with pleasure.
What is life when wanting love? Night without a morning: Love's the cloudless summer sun,
Nature gay adorning.
HUSBAND, HUSBAND, CEASE YOUR STRIFE.
HUSBAND, husband, cease your strife, Nor longer idly rave, sir;
Tho' I am your wedded wife, Yet I am not your slave, sir. One of two must still obey, Nancy, Nancy;
Is it man or woman, say,
My spouse, Nancy?"
If 'tis still the lordly word, Service and obedience; I'll desert my sov'reign lord, And so good-bye allegiance! Sad will I be, so bereft, Nancy, Nancy;
Yet I'll try to make a shift, My spouse, Nancy.'
My poor heart then break it must, My last hour I'm near it:
When you lay me in the dust,
Think, think how you will bear it.
I will hope and trust in Heaven, Nancy, Nancy;
Strength to bear it will be given, My spouse, Nancy.'
Well, Sir, from the silent dead Still I'll try to daunt you; Ever round your midnight bed Horrid sprites shall haunt you. 'I'll wed another, like my dear Nancy, Nancy;
Then all hell will fly for fear,
My spouse, Nancy.'
WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE?
TUNE-The Sutor's Dochter.
WILT thou be my dearie ?
When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart,
Wilt thou let me cheer thee? By the treasure of my soul, That's the love I bear thee!
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