ALLAN RAMSAY. 1686-1758. ["Tea-Table Miscellany." 1724.] THE LASS OF PATIE'S MILL. THE lass of Patie's mill, So bonny, blyth, and gay, In spite of all my skill, She stole my heart away. When tedding of the hay, Bare-headed on the green, Love 'midst her locks did play, Her arms white, round, and smooth, Breasts rising in their dawn, To age it would give youth To press 'em with his hand : Thro' all my spirits ran An extasy of bliss, When I such sweetness fand Without the help of art, Like flowers which grace the wild, She did her sweets impart, Whene'er she spoke or smil'd. Her looks they were so mild, She me to love beguil'd; I wish'd her for my bride. ( had I all the wealth Hopeton's high mountains fill, Insur'd lang life and health, And pleasure at my will; I'd promise and fulfil That none but bonny she, The lass of Patie's mill, Shou'd share the same wi'me. O'ER THE MOOR TO MAGGIE. And I'll o'er the moor to Maggy, If she love mirth I'll learn to sing, If she admire a martial mind, I'll sheath my limbs in armour; If to the softer dance inclin'd, With gayest airs I'll charm her; If she love grandeur, day and night I'll plot my nation's glory, Find favour in my prince's sight, And shine in future story. Beauty can wonders work with ease, Where wit is corresponding, And bravest men know best to please, My bonny Maggy's love can turn Me to what shape she pleases, GIVE ME A LASS WITH A LUMP OF LAND. Gi'e me a lass with a lump of land, And we for life shall gang thegither; Tho' daft or wise, I'll never demand, Or black or fair it maks nae whether. And blood alane is no worth a shilling; Gi'e me a lass with a lump of land, And in my bosom I'll hug my treasure; Gin I had anes her gear in my hand, Shou'd love turn dowf, it will find pleasure. Laugh on wha likes, but there's my hand, I hate with poortith, tho' bonny to meddle; Unless they bring cash, or a lump of land, They 'se never get me to dance to their fiddle. There's meikle good love in bands and bags, And siller and gowd's a sweet complexion; But beauty, and wit, and virtue in rags, Have tint the art of gaining affection. Love tips his arrows with woods and parks, And castles, and riggs, and moors, and meadows; And naithing can catch our modern sparks, But well-tocher'd lasses, or jointur'd widows. JAMES THOMSON. 1700-1748. ["Orpheus Caledonius." 1725.] TO FORTUNE. FOREVER, Fortune, wilt thou prove And, when we meet a mutual heart, Bid us sigh on from day to day, But busy, busy still art thou, For pomp, and noise, and senseless show, For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer, All other blessings I resign, Make but the dear Amanda mine. TO HER I LOVE. Tell me, thou soul of her I love, Ah! tell me, whither art thou fled; To what delightful world above, Or dost thou, free, at pleasure, roam, O if thou hover'st round my walk, While, under every well-known tree, I to thy fancied shadow talk, And every tear is full of thee: Should then the weary eye of grief, In slumber find a short relief, O visit then my soothing dream! |