Me, Damon, me the maid enchants No art she knows, or seeks to know; No gems, no gold she needs to wear; Thomas Bedingfield [ ? -1613} RONDEAU REDOUBLÉ My day and night are in my lady's hand; Her anger darkens all the cheerful light. All heaven in her glorious eyes is spanned; Her smile is softer than the summer's night, What if the Winter chase the Summer bland! Love is my Lord in all the world's despite My day and night. John Payne [. 1770-1800] "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, To sit an' woo Down by the stream sae glassy yet. But there's a braw time coming yet, O' joys to be, When fa's the modest gloaming yet. She's neither proud nor saucy yet, Bonny blinking, Hilty-skilty lassie yet. But O, her artless smile's mair sweet 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 kiзses her, 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, Is lovely young Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane. She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie; Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flower o' Dunblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening! How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie! I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie 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, MARGARET AND DORA MARGARET'S beauteous-Grecian arts 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; Is thy sweet voice to me: And the midnight moon is weaving So the spirit bows before 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:- Alas! and with what gifts shall I pursue thee, What offerings bring, what treasures lay before thee; Aubrey Thomas de Vere [1814-1902] |