Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 84

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, La.s.ses are lonely and dowie and wae; Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray: At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae sw.a.n.kies are roaming 'Bout stacks wi' the la.s.ses at bogle to play; But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her dearie-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!

The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay.

We'll hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking; Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-- The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

loaning] lane, field-track. wede] weeded. bughts]

sheep-folds. daffing] joking. leglin] milk-pail. hairst]

harvest. bandsters] binders. lyart] gray-haired. runkled]

wrinkled. fleeching] coaxing. sw.a.n.kies] l.u.s.ty lads. bogle] bogy, hide-and-seek. dool] mourning.

Oliver Goldsmith. 1728-1774

467. Woman

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy?

What art can wash her tears away?

The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from ev'ry eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom is--to die.

Oliver Goldsmith. 1728-1774

468. Memory

O MEMORY, thou fond deceiver, Still importunate and vain, To former joys recurring ever, And turning all the past to pain:

Thou, like the world, th' oppress'd oppressing, Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe: And he who wants each other blessing In thee must ever find a foe.

Robert Cunninghame-Graham of Gartmore. 1735-1797

469. If Doughty Deeds

IF doughty deeds my lady please, Right soon I'll mount my steed; And strong his arm and fast his seat, That bears frae me the meed.

I'll wear thy colours in my cap, Thy picture in my heart; And he that bends not to thine eye Shall rue it to his smart!

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; O tell me how to woo thee!

For thy dear sake nae care I'll take, Tho' ne'er another trow me.

If gay attire delight thine eye I'll dight me in array; I'll tend thy chamber door all night, And squire thee all the day.

If sweetest sounds can win thine ear, These sounds I'll strive to catch; Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysel', That voice that nane can match.

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love...

But if fond love thy heart can gain, I never broke a vow; Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, I never loved but you.

For you alone I ride the ring, For you I wear the blue; For you alone I strive to sing, O tell me how to woo!

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; O tell me how to woo thee!

For thy dear sake nae care I'll take Tho' ne'er another trow me.

William Cowper. 1731-1800

470. To Mary Unwin

MARY! I want a lyre with other strings, Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they drew, An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new And undebased by praise of meaner things; That ere through age or woe I shed my wings, I may record thy worth with honour due, In verse as musical as thou art true, And that immortalizes whom it sings: But thou hast little need. There is a Book By seraphs writ with beams of heavenly light, On which the eyes of G.o.d not rarely look, A chronicle of actions just and bright-- There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, s.h.i.+ne; And since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee mine.

William Cowper. 1731-1800

471. My Mary

THE twentieth year is wellnigh past Since first our sky was overcast; Ah, would that this might be the last!

My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow; 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary!

Thy needles, once a s.h.i.+ning store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and s.h.i.+ne no more; My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will, My Mary!

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utter'd in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary!

For could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see?

The sun would rise in vain for me.

My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline, Thy hands their little force resign; Yet, gently press'd, press gently mine, My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, That now at every step thou mov'st Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st, My Mary!

And still to love, though press'd with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last-- My Mary!

James Beattie. 1735-1803

472. An Epitaph