THE dark grey o' gloamin',
The lone leafy shaw,
The coo o' the cushat,
The scent o' the haw;
The brae o' the burnie
A' bloomin in flower, An' twa faithfu' lovers, Make ae happy hour.
A kind winsome wifie,
A clean cantie hame,
An' smilin' sweet babies,
To lisp the dear name;
Wi' plenty o' labour,
An' health to endure, Make time to row round aye
The ae happy hour.
Ye, lost to affection,
Whom avarice can move
To woo an' to marry
For a' thing but love;
Awa' wi' your sorrows,
Awa' wi' your store,
Ye ken na the pleasure
O' ae happy hour!
"THEE, Mary, with this ring I wed," So, fourteen years ago, I said— Behold another ring!" For what?" "To wed thee o'er again-why not?"
With that first ring I married Youth,
Grace, Beauty, Innocence, and Truth;
Taste long admir'd, sense long rever'd,
And all my Molly then appear'd.
If she, by merit since disclos'd,
Prove twice the woman I suppos'd,
I plead that double merit now,
To justify a double vow.
Here then, to-day, (with faith as sure,
With ardour as intense and pure,
As when, amidst the rites divine,
I took thy troth, and plighted mine),
Have ye seen th' ethereal blue
Gently shedding silvery dew,
Spangling o'er the silent green,
While the nightingale, unseen,
To the moon and stars full bright,
Lonesome chants the hymn of night?
Have ye seen the broider'd May
All her scented bloom display,
Breezes opening, every hour,
This, and that, expecting flower,
While the mingling birds prolong,
From each bush, the vernal song?
Have ye seen the damask-rose
Her unsully'd blush disclose,
Or the lily's dewy bell,
In her glossy white, excell,
Or a garden vary'd o'er
With a thousand glories more?
By the beauties these display,
Morning, evening, night, or day;
By the pleasures these excite,
Endless sources of delight!
Judge, by them, the joys I find,
Since my Rosalind was kind,
Since she did herself resign
To my vows, for ever mine.
As Silvia in her garden stray'd,
Where each officious rose,
To welcome the approaching maid
With fairer beauty glows.
Transported from their dewy beds,
The new-blown lilies rise;
Gay tulips wave their shining heads,
To please her brighter eyes.
A bee that sought the sweetest flow'r,
To this fair quarter came:
Soft humming round the fatal bow'r
That held the smiling dame.
He searched the op'ning buds with care
And flew from tree to tree:
But, Silvia, finding none so fair,
Unwisely fixed on thee.
Her hand obedient to her thought,
The rover did destroy;
And the slain insect dearly bought
Its momentary joy.
O, Silvia, cease your anger now
To this your guiltless foe;
And smooth again that gentle brow,
Where lasting lilies blow.
Soft Cynthio vows when you depart,
The sun withdraws its ray,
That nature trembles like his heart,
And storms eclipse the day.
Amintor swears a morning sun's
Less brilliant than your eyes;
And tho' his tongue at random runs,
You seldom think he lies.
They tell you, those soft lips may vie
With pinks at op'ning day;
And yet you slew a simple fly
For proving what they say.
Believe me, not a bud like thee
In this fair garden blows;
Then blame no more the erring bee,
That took you for the rose.
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