So poets lose their feet by time, Unless he were, like Phoebus, young; Will not require poetic dress; And. if the Muse deny her aid To have them sung, they may be said. 'Tis true, but let it not be known, No length of time can make you quit Her arms white, round, and smooth, 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. O 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, Her wit and sweetness call me, Then to my fair I'll show my mind, Whatever may befall me: If she love mirth I'll learn to sing, Or likes the Nine to follow, I'll lay my lugs in Pindus' spring, And invocate Apollo. 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, GIE 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. |