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JOHN CUNNINGHAM,

Born 1729, died 1773.

HOLIDAY GOWN.

IN holiday gown, and my new-fangled hat,
Last Monday I tripp'd to the fair;

I held up my head, and I'll tell you for what,-
Brisk Roger I guess'd would be there :
He woos me to marry whenever we meet,
There's honey sure dwells on his tongue!
He hugs me so close, and he kisses so sweet,-
I'd wed-if I were not too young.

Fond Sue, I'll assure you, laid hold on the boy, (The vixen would fain be his bride,)

Some token she claim'd, either riband or toy,
And swore that she 'd not be denied:

A top-knot he bought her, and garters of green,-
Pert Susan was cruelly stung ;

I hate her so much that, to kill her with spleen, I'd wed-if I were not too young.

He whisper'd such soft pretty things in mine ear! He flatter'd, he promis'd, and swore!

Such trinkets he gave me, such laces and geer,

That, trust me, my pockets ran o'er :

Some ballads he bought me, the best he could find, And sweetly their burden he sung ;

Good faith! he's so handsome, so witty, and kind, I'd wed-if I were not too young.

The sun was just setting, 'twas time to retire,
(Our cottage was distant a mile);

I rose to be gone-Roger bow'd like a squire,
And handed me over the stile:

His arms he threw round me-love laugh'd in his eye;
He led me the meadows among,

There press'd me so close, I agreed, with a sigh,
To wed-for I was not too young.

JOHN SCOTT,

OF AMWELL,

Born 1730, died 1783.

WRITTEN AFTER READING SOME MODERN
LOVE VERSES.

TAKE hence this tuneful trifler's lays !
I'll hear no more th' unmeaning strain
Of Venus' doves, and Cupid's darts,
And killing eyes, and wounded hearts :
All Flattery's round of fulsome praise,
All Falsehood's cant of fabled pain.

Bring me the Muse whose tongue has told
Love's genuine, plaintive, tender tale;
Bring me the Muse whose sounds of woe,
Midst Death's dread scenes, so sweetly flow,
When Friendship's faithful breast lies cold,
When Beauty's blooming cheek is pale;
Bring these-I like their grief sincere ;
It soothes my sympathetic gloom :

For, oh! Love's genuine pains I've borne,
And Death's dread rage has made me mourn;
I've wept o'er Friendship's early bier,
And dropp'd the tear on Beauty's tomb.

JOHN LANGHORNE,

Born 1735, died 1779.

TO MISS CRACROFT,

WRAPPED ROUND A NOSEGAY OF violets.

DEAR object of my late and early prayer!
Source of my joy! and solace of my care!
Whose gentle friendship such a charm can give,
As makes me wish, and tells me how, to live.

To thee the Muse, with grateful hand, would bring
These first fair children of the doubtful Spring.
O may they, fearless of a varying sky,

Bloom on thy breast, and smile beneath thine eye!
In fairer lights their vivid blue display,

And sweeter breathe their little lives away!

L

SONNET, TO MISS CRACROFT.

ON thy fair morn, O hope-inspiring May!
The sweetest twins that ever Nature bore,

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Where Hackthorn's vale her field-flower garden wore,
Young Love and Fancy met the genial day :
And, all as on the thyme-green bank I lay,
A nymph of gentlest mien, their train before,
Came with a smile; and, "Swain," she cried,
To pensive sorrow tune thy hopeless lay :
Friends of thy heart, see Love and Fancy bring
Each joy that youth's enchanted bosom warms!
Delight that rifles all the fragrant spring!
Fair-handed Hope, that paints unfading charms !
And dove-like Faith, that waves her silver wing:-
These, Swain, are thine; for Nancy meets thy arms!"

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ROBERT BURNS,

Born 1759, died 1796.

ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK.

O, STAY, Sweet warbling wood-lark, stay,
Nor quit for me the trembling spray ;

A hapless lover courts thy lay,

Thy soothing fond complaining.

Again, again that tender part,

That I may catch thy melting art;
For surely that wad touch her heart,
Wha kills me wi' disdaining.

Say, was thy little mate unkind,
And heard thee as the careless wind?
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd,
Sic notes o' wae could wauken!

Thou tells o' never-ending care;
O' speechless grief, and dark despair;
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair!
Or my poor heart is broken!

GROVES O' SWEET MYRTLE.

THEIR groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume;

Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan,
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom.

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen :
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers,
A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean..

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