"My Love She's But a Lassie Yet" 525

"MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET"

My love she's but a lassie yet,
A lightsome lovely lassie yet;
It scarce wad do

To sit an' woo

Down by the stream sae glassy yet.

But there's a braw time coming yet,
When we may gang a-roaming yet;
An' hint wi' glee

O' joys to be,

When fa's the modest gloaming yet.

She's neither proud nor saucy yet,
She's neither plump nor gaucy yet;
But just a jinking,

Bonny blinking,

Hilty-skilty lassie yet.

But O, her artless smile's mair sweet
Than hinny or than marmalete;

An' right or wrang,

Ere it be lang,

I'll bring her to a parley yet.

I'm jealous o' what blesses her,

The very breeze that kisses her,

The flowery beds

On which she treads,

Though wae for ane that misses her.

Then O, to meet my lassie yet,

Up in yon glen sae grassy yet;

For all I see

Are naught to me,

Save her that's but a lassie yet.

James Hogg [1770-1835]

JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUNBLANE THE Sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray, in the calm simmer gloamin', To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.

How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom,
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green;
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,
Is lovely young Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie;
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain;

And far be the villain, divested of feeling,

Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flower o' Dunblane.

Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening!
Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen;
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
Is charming young Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie!
The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain;
I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie
Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.

Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,

Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain,

And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor,
If wanting sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.
Robert Tannahill [1774-1810]

MARGARET AND DORA

MARGARET'S beauteous-Grecian arts
Ne'er drew form completer,

Yet why, in my hearts of hearts,

Hold I Dora's sweeter?

Lucy is a golden girl;

But a man, a man, should woo her!

They who seek her shrink aback,

When they should, like storms, pursue her.

All her smiles are hid in light

All her hair is lost in splendor; But she hath the eyes of Night And a heart that's over-tender.

Yet, the foolish suitors fly

(Is't excess of dread or duty?) From the starlight of her eye, Leaving to neglect her beauty!

Men by fifty seasons taught

Leave her to a young beginner,

Who, without a second thought,

Whispers, wooes, and straight must win her.

Lucy is a golden girl!

Toast her in a goblet brimming! May the man that wins her wear

On his heart the Rose of Women!

Bryan Waller Procter [1787-1874]

STANZAS FOR MUSIC

THERE be none of Beauty's daughters

With a magic like thee;

And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lulled winds seem dreaming.

And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep,
Whose breast is gently heaving,
As an infant's asleep:

So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee;

With a full but soft emotion,

Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

"FLOWERS I WOULD BRING"

FLOWERS I Would bring if flowers could make thee fairer, And music, if the Muse were dear to thee;

(For loving these would make thee love the bearer)

But sweetest songs forget their melody,

And loveliest flowers would but conceal the wearer:

A rose I marked, and might have plucked; but she
Blushed as she bent, imploring me to spare her,
Nor spoil her beauty by such rivalry.

Alas! and with what gifts shall I pursue thee,

What offerings bring, what treasures lay before thee;
When earth with all her floral train doth woo thee,
And all old poets and old songs adore thee;

And love to thee is naught; from passionate mood
Secured by joy's complacent plenitude!

Aubrey Thomas de Vere [1814–1902]

་་

"It Is Not Beauty I Demand" 529

"IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND"

It is not Beauty I demand,

A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair:

Tell me not of your starry eyes,
Your lips that seem on roses fed,
Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies
Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed:-

A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks
Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours,
A breath that softer music speaks

Than summer winds a-wooing flowers,→

These are but gauds: nay, what are lips?
Coral beneath the ocean-stream,
Whose brink when your adventurer sips
Full oft he perisheth on them.

And what are cheeks but ensigns oft

That wave hot youth to fields of blood? . Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, Do Greece or Ilium any good?

Eyes can with baleful ardor burn;

Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed; There's many a white hand holds an urn With lovers' hearts to dust consumed.

For crystal brows-there's naught within;
They are but empty cells for pride;
He who the Siren's hair would win
Is mostly strangled in the tide.

Give me, instead of Beauty's bust,
A tender heart, a loyal mind
Which with temptation I could trust,

Yet never linked with error find,—