Heartbreak

    Fintray, my stay in worldly strife,
    Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life,
        Are ye as idle's I am?
    Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg,
    O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg,
        And ye shall see me try him.

    I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears,
    Who left the all-important cares
        Of princes and their darlings;
    And, bent on winning borough towns,
    Came shaking hands wi' wabster lowns,
        And kissing barefit carlins.

    Combustion thro' our boroughs rode,
    Whistling his roaring pack abroad
        Of mad unmuzzled lions;
    As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl'd,
    And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd
        To every Whig defiance.

    But cautious Queensberry left the war,
    Th' u...

Daughter to that good Earl, once President
Of Englands Counsel, and her Treasury,
Who liv'd in both, unstain'd with gold or fee,
And left them both, more in himself content,
Till the sad breaking of that Parlament
Broke him, as that dishonest victory
At Chaeronea, fatal to liberty
Kil'd with report that Old man eloquent,
Though later born, then to have known the dayes
Wherin your Father flourisht, yet by you
Madam, me thinks I see him living yet;
So well your words his noble vertues praise,
That all both judge you to relate them true,
And to possess them, Honour'd Margaret.

    "All that I ask," says Love, "is just to stand
    And gaze, unchided, deep in thy dear eyes;
    For in their depths lies largest Paradise.
Yet, if perchance one pressure of thy hand
    Be granted me, then joy I thought complete
    Were still more sweet.

    "All that I ask," says Love, "all that I ask,
    Is just thy hand-clasp.    Could I brush thy cheek
    As zephyrs brush a rose leaf, words are weak
To tell the bliss in which my soul would bask.
    There is no language but would desecrate
    A joy so great.

    "All that I ask, is just one tender touch
    Of that soft cheek.    Thy pulsing palm in mine,
    Thy dark eyes lifted in a trust divine,
And those curled lips that tempt me overmuch
    Turned where I may not seize the supre...

I

There is a field, that leans upon two hills,
Foamed o'er of flowers and twinkling with clear rills;
That in its girdle of wild acres bears
The anodyne of rest that cures all cares;
Wherein soft wind and sun and sound are blent
With fragrance - as in some old instrument
Sweet chords; - calm things, that Nature's magic spell
Distills from Heaven's azure crucible,
And pours on Earth to make the sick mind well.
There lies the path, they say -
Come away! come away!

II

There is a forest, lying 'twixt two streams,
Sung through of birds and haunted of dim dreams;
That in its league-long hand of trunk and leaf
Lifts a green wand that charms away all grief;
Wrought of quaint silence and the stealth of things,
Vague, whispering' touches, gle...

"Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!"
Jeemses Rivers! won't some one ever shet that howl o' his?
    That-air yellin' drives me wild!
    Cain't none of ye stop the child?
    Want jer Daddy? "Naw." Gee whizz!
    "Want to be whur mother is!"

"Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!"
Coax him, Sairy! Mary, sing somepin far him! Lift him, Liz -
    Bang the clock-bell with the key -
    Er the meat-ax! Gee-mun-nee!
    Listen to them lungs o' his!
    "Want to be whur mother is!"

"Want to be whur mother is! Want to be whur mother is!"
Preacher guess'll pound all night on that old pulpit o' his;
    'Pears to me some wimmin jest
    Shows religious interest
    Mostly 'fore their fambly's riz!
    "Want to ...

Video meliora proboque,
Deteriora sequor.


I own I am shock’d at the purchase of slaves,
And fear those who buy them and sell them are knaves;
What I hear of their hardships, their tortures, and groans,
Is almost enough to draw pity from stones.


I pity them greatly, but I must be mum,
For how could we do without sugar and rum?
Especially sugar, so needful we see?
What, give up our desserts, our coffee, and tea!


Besides, if we do, the French, Dutch, and Danes
Will heartily thank us, no doubt, for our pains;
If we do not buy the poor creatures, they will,
And tortures and groans will be multiplied still.


If foreigners likewise would give up the trade,
Much more in behalf of your wish might be said;
But, while they g...

Tune - "The Weaver and his Shuttle, O."


I.

    My father was a farmer
        Upon the Carrick border, O,
    And carefully he bred me,
        In decency and order, O;
    He bade me act a manly part,
        Though I had ne'er a farthing, O;
    For without an honest manly heart,
        No man was worth regarding, O.

II.

    Then out into the world
        My course I did determine, O;
    Tho' to be rich was not my wish,
        yet to be great was charming, O:
    My talents they were not the worst,
        Nor yet my education, O;
    Resolv'd was I, at least to try,
        To mend my situation, O.

III.

    In many a way, and vain essay,
        I courted fortune's favour, O;

Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars
Through the grey west; and lo! these waters, steeled
By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield
A vivid repetition of the stars;
Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars
Amid his fellows beauteously revealed
At happy distance from earth's groaning field,
Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars.
Is it a mirror? or the nether Sphere
Opening to view the abyss in which she feeds                        
Her own calm fires? But list! a voice is near;
Great Pan himself low-whispering through the reeds,
"Be thankful, thou; for, if unholy deeds
Ravage the world, tranquillity is here!"

All my past life is mine no more,
The flying hours are gone,
Like transitory dreams given o'er,
Whose images are kept in store
By memory alone.

What ever is to come is not,
How can it then be mine?
The present moment's all my lot,
And that as fast as it is got,
Phyllis, is wholly thine.

Then talk not of inconstancy,
False hearts, and broken vows,
Ii, by miracle, can be,
This live-long minute true to thee,
'Tis all that heaven allows.

The night was dark and dreary,
    And the autumn-wind went by
With a sound like Sorrow's wailing
    In its sadly mournful cry; -
The yew trees, old and drooping,
    Shook in the angry blast,
And the moon looked, pale and tearful,
    Through the clouds that hurried past.

In a dreary room and fireless,
    With mouldy walls and damp,
A grey, old man was seated
    Beside a flickering lamp; -
An old man, worn and wasted,
    With bent and shivering form,
And haggard looks, sat trembling
    At the moaning of the storm.

The casements, old and creaking,
    Shook in the angry blast;
And the pale, thin face grew paler,
    As the shrieking winds went past;
For hovering fiends seemed clutching
    His treasures from his grasp,...

Oh yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;

That nothing walks with aimless feet;
That not one life will be destroy’d,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete;

That not a worm is cloven in vain;
That not a moth with vain desire
Is shrivell’d in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another gain.

Behold, we know not anything;
I can but trust that good shall fall
At last, far off, at last to all,
And every winter change to spring.

So runs my dream; but who am I?
An infant crying in the night;
An infant crying for the light,
And with no language, but a cry.

Joy came in youth as a humming-bird,
    (Sing hey! for the honey and bloom of life!)
And it made a home in my summer bower
With the honeysuckle and the sweet-pea flower.
    (Sing hey! for the blossoms and sweets of life!)

Joy came as a lark when the years had gone,
    (Ah! hush, hush still, for the dream is short!)
And I gazed far up to the melting blue
Where the rare song dropped like a golden dew.
    (Ah! sweet is the song tho' the dream be short!)

Joy hovers now in a far-off mist,
    (The night draws on and the air breathes snow!)
And I reach, sometimes, with a trembling hand
To the red-tipped cloud of the joy-bird's land.
    (Alas! for the days of the storm and the snow!)

A raven, while with glossy breast
Her new-laid eggs she fondly press’d,
And, on her wicker-work high mounted,
Her chickens prematurely counted
(A fault philosophers might blame,
If quite exempted from the same),
Enjoy’d at ease the genial day;
‘Twas April, as the bumpkins say,
The legislature call’d it May.
But suddenly a wind, as high
As ever swept a winter sky,
Shook the young leaves about her ears,
And fill’d her with a thousand fears,
Lest the rude blast should snap the bough,
And spread her golden hopes below.
But just at eve the blowing weather
And all her fears were hush’d together:
And now, quoth poor unthinking Ralph.
‘Tis over, and the brood is safe;
(For ravens, though, as birds of omen,
They teach both conjurors and old women

Sea-born goddess, let me be
By thy son thus graced, and thee,
That whene'er I woo, I find
Virgins coy, but not unkind.
Let me, when I kiss a maid,
Taste her lips, so overlaid
With love's sirop, that I may
In your temple, when I pray,
Kiss the altar, and confess
There's in love no bitterness.

They shall not return to us, the resolute, the young,
The eager and whole-hearted whom we gave:
But the men who left them thriftily to die in their own dung,
Shall they come with years and honour to the grave?

They shall not return to us; the strong men coldly slain
In sight of help denied from day to day:
But the men who edged their agonies and chid them in their pain,
Are they too strong and wise to put away?

Our dead shall not return to us while Day and Night divide,
Never while the bars of sunset hold.
But the idle-minded overlings who quibbled while they died,
Shall they thrust for high employments as of old?

Shall we only threaten and be angry for an hour:
When the storm is ended shall we find
How softly but how swiftly they have sidled back to p...

        Mon ame sur mon lèvre étoit lors toute entière.
        Pour savourer le miel qui sur la votre étoit;
        Mais en me retirant, elle resta derrière,
            Tant de ce doux plaisir l'amorce l'a restoit.
                            VOITURE.


How heavenly was the poet's doom,
    To breathe his spirit through a kiss:
And lose within so sweet a tomb
    The trembling messenger of bliss!

And, sure his soul returned to feel
    That it again could ravished be;
For in the kiss that thou didst steal,
    His life and soul have fled to thee.

Tune. - "I am a man unmarried."


I.

    O once I lov'd a bonnie lass,
        Ay, and I love her still;
    And whilst that honour warms my breast,
        I'll love my handsome Nell.

II.

    As bonnie lasses I hae seen,
        And mony full as braw;
    But for a modest gracefu' mien
        The like I never saw.

III.

    A bonnie lass, I will confess,
        Is pleasant to the e'e,
    But without some better qualities
        She's no a lass for me.

IV.

    But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet,
        And what is best of a',
    Her reputation is complete,
        And fair without a flaw.

V.

    She dresses ay sae clean and neat,
        Both dece...

“The white Julienne remains the flower of Marie Antoinette.”
- ALPHONSE KARR


Again above thy fragile flowers
I bend, to bring their perfume nigh;
For only in the evening hours
Thy odors pass thy blossoms by;
But when the ministering day
Deserts thee with the warmth and light
That lulled thee, waking thou wilt pay
For these, in sweetness, to the night.

O flower of Marie Antoinette!
Ungrateful to the lavish day,
Refusing it thy fragrance, yet
Relenting in such generous way,
Perchance, like thee, while life was bright
Her soul no holy savour shed,
Yet scattered incense when grief’s night
Wept dews of blood upon her head!

I bend, to bring thy perfume near,
Again, I cannot leave the spot;
Damp walls and prison gloo...