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There's not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green,
But minds me omy Jean.
ye westlin winds, blaw saft
Bring hame the laden bees;
That's ay sae neat and clean;
Sae charming is my Jean.
What sighs and vows amang the knowes
Hae passed atween us twa!
That night she gacd awa!
To whom the heart is seen,
As my sweet lovely Jean!
MARY, at thy window be,
It is the wished, the trysted hour!
That make the miser's treasure poor:
How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen when to the trembling string
The dance gaed through the lighted ha',
I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
And yon the toast of a'the town,
“Ye are na Mary Morison.”
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace
Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
Whase only faut is loving thee?
At least be pity to me shown;
The thought o' Mary Morison.
Y heart is a-breaking, dear tittie,
Some counsel unto me come len';
But what will I do wi' Tam Glen?
Braw: handsome, gaily dressed
I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow,
In poortith I might mak a fen':
If I maunna marry Tam Glen?
There's Lowrie, the laird o' Dumeller,
“Guid-day to you,” brute! he comes ben: He brags and he blaws o' his siller,
But when will he dance like Tam Glen?
My minnie does constantly deave me,
And bids me beware o' young men;
But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen?
My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him,
He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten:
O wha will i get but Tam Glen?
Yestreen at the valentines' dealing,
My heart to my mou gied a sten:
And thrice it was written, “Tam Glen”!
The last Halloween I was waukin
My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken:
And the very gray breeks o' Tam Glen!
Ben: into the parlor
Come counsel, dear tittie, don't tarry;
I'll gie ye my bonnie black hen,
will advise me to marry
Y true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one for another given:
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his.
His heart in me keeps him and me in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
Sir Philip Sidney
AVING this day my horse, my hand, my lance
Guided so well that I obtained the prize,
Think Nature me a man-at-arms did make.
Stella looked on, and from her heavenly face
Sir Philip Sidney
TOR roses kindling when the Night grows old,
Nor sound of lute, nor song-birds singing hymns,
Nor the wave's ripple round the prow it rims,
Nor dance of nymphs with slowly swaying limbs,
Nor bastioned camps thick-set with bristling pikes,
Nor caverns where the sunlight hardly strikes,
Nor solemn stillness of dumb rocks, can yield
Me so much pleasure as a grassy field,
WHEN alone beweep my outcast state,
HEN in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate;
Featured like him, like him with friends possest,
With what I most enjoy contented least; 1 The translation is by George Wyndham, and is reprinted with the permission of Macmillan & Co., Ltd.