"Dinna Ask Me"

Look deeper still. If thou canst feel,
Within thy inmost soul,

That thou hast kept a portion back,

While I have staked the whole,

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Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so.

Is there within thy heart a need

That mine cannot fulfil?

One chord that any other hand

Could better wake or still?

Speak now-lest at some future day my whole life wither and decay.

Lives there within thy nature hid

The demon-spirit change,

Shedding a passing glory still

On all things new and strange?

It may not be thy fault alone, but shield my heart against thy own.

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day

And answer to my claim,

That Fate, and that to-day's mistake

Not thou-had been to blame?

Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou wilt surely

warn and save me now.

Nay, answer not,-I dare not hear,

The words would come too late;
Yet I would spare thee all remorse,

So, comfort thee, my Fate,

Whatever on my heart may fall-remember, I would risk it

all!

Adelaide Anne Procter [1825-1864]

“DINNA ASK ME”

O, DINNA ask me gin I lo'e ye:

Troth, I daurna tell!

Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye,

Ask it o' yoursel'.

O, dinna look sae sair at me,

For weel ye ken me true;
O, gin ye look sae sair at me,
I daurna look at you.

When ye gang to yon braw, braw town,
And bonnier lassies see,

O, dinna, Jamie, look at them,
Lest ye should mind na me.

For I could never bide the lass
That ye'd lo'e mair than me;
And O, I'm sure my heart wad brak,
Gin ye'd prove fause to me!

A SONG

John Dunlop [1755-1820]

SING me a sweet, low song of night

Before the moon is risen,

A song that tells of the stars' delight
Escaped from day's bright prison,

A song that croons with the cricket's voice,
That sleeps with the shadowed trees,
A song that shall bid my heart rejoice
At its tender mysteries!

And then when the song is ended, love,
Bend down your head unto me,
Whisper the word that was born above
Ere the moon had swayed the sea;
Ere the oldest star began to shine,
Or the farthest sun to burn,-

The oldest of words, O heart of mine,
Yet newest, and sweet to learn.
Hildegarde Hawthorne [18

THE REASON

OH, hark the pulses of the night,

The crickets hidden in the field,

That beat out music of delight

Till summoned dawn stands half revealed!

And the green wheat and bending rye,
Tuned to the earth and calling dawn,

The stars vibrating in the sky!

And know, divided soul of me,

Here in the meadow, sweet in speech,

This perfect night could never be

Were we not mated each to each.

James Oppenheim [1882

"MY OWN CÁILIN DONN"

THE blush is on the flower, and the bloom is on the tree, And the bonnie, bonnie sweet birds are caroling their glee; And the dews upon the grass are made diamonds by the sun, All to deck a path of glory for my own Cáilin Donn!

Oh fair she is! Oh rare she is! Oh dearer still to me, More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree! More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee, Is the coming of my true love-my own Cáilin Donn!

O sycamore! O sycamore! wave, wave your banners green!
Let all your pennons flutter, O beech! before my queen!
Ye fleet and honeyed breezes, to kiss her hand ye run;
But my heart has passed before ye to my own Cáilin Donn.

Ring out, ring out, O linden, your merry leafy bells!
Unveil your brilliant torches, O chestnut! to the dells;
Strew, strew the glade with splendor, for morn it cometh on!
Oh, the morn of all delight to me-my own Cáilin Donn!

She is coming, where we parted, where she wanders every day;

There's a gay surprise before her who thinks me far away; Oh, like hearing bugles triumph when the fight of freedom's

won,

Is the joy around your footsteps, my own Cáilin Donn!

George Sigerson (1839

SONG

From "Festus"

OH! the wee green neuk! the sly green neuk,
The wee sly neuk for me!

Whare the wheat is wavin' bright and brown,
And the wind is fresh and free.

Whare I weave wild weeds, and out o' reeds
Kerve whissles as I lay;

And a douce low voice is murmurin' by
Through the lec-lang simmer day.

And whare a' things luik as though they lo'ed
To languish in the sun;

And that, if they feed the fire they dree,

They wadna ae pang were gene.
Whare the lift aboon is still as death,

And bright as life can be;

While the douce low voice says, Na, na, na!

But ye mauna luik sae at me.

Whare the lang rank bent is saft and cule,
And freshenin' till the feet;

And the spot is sly, and the spinnie high,
Whare my love and I mak' seat:
And I tease her till she rins, and then

I catch her roun' the tree;

While the poppies shak' their heids and blush:

Let 'em blush till they drap, for me!

Philip James Bailey [1816-1902]

"BY YON BURN SIDE"

WE'LL meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side,
Where the bushes form a cosie den, on yon burn side;
Though the broomy knowes be green,

And there we may be seen,

Yet we'll meet-we'll meet at e'en, down by yon burn side.

A Pastoral

I'll lead thee to the birken bower, on yon burn side,

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Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flower, on yon burn side; There the busy prying eye,

Ne'er disturbs the lover's joy,

While in ither's arms they lie, down by yon burn side.

Awa', ye rude, unfeeling crew, frae yon burn side,
Those fairy scenes are no for you, by yon burn side;
There fancy smooths her theme,

By the sweetly murmuring stream,

And the rock-lodged echoes skim, down by yon burn side.

Now the plantin' taps are tinged wi' goud, on yon burn side, And gloamin' draws her foggy shroud o'er yon burn side; Far frae the noisy scene,

I'll through the fields alane,

There we'll meet, my ain dear Jean, down by yon burn

side.

Robert Tannahill [1774-1810]

A PASTORAL

FLOWER of the medlar,
Crimson of the quince,

I saw her at the blossom-time,
And loved her ever since!

She swept the draughty pleasance,
The blooms had left the trees,
The whilst the birds sang canticles,
In cherry symphonies.

Whiteness of the white rose,

Redness of the red,

She went to cut the blush-rose buds

To tie at the altar-head;

And some she laid in her bosom,
And some around her brows,
And, as she passed, the lily-heads
All becked and made their bows.