My Peggy smiles sae kindly Whene'er I whisper love, That I look doun on a' the toun, That I look doun upon a croun: My Peggy smiles sae kindly, It makes me blithe and bauld, And naething gi'es me sic delight As waulking o' the fauld.
My Peggy sings sae saftly, When on my pipe I play; By a' the rest it is confessed, By a' the rest that she sings best: My Peggy sings sae saftly, And in her sangs are tauld, Wi' innocence the wale o' sense, At wauking o' the fauld.
Allan Ramsay [1686-1758]
SONG From "Acis and Galatea"
O ruddier than the cherry! O sweeter than the berry! O nymph more bright Than moonshine night, Like kidlings blithe and merry! Ripe as the melting luster; Yet hard to tame As raging flame, And fierce as storms that bluster!
John Gay [1685-1732]
"TELL ME, MY HEART, IF THIS BE LOVE"
When Delia on the plain appears, Awed by a thousand tender fears I would approach, but dare not move: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear No other voice than hers can hear, No other wit but hers approve: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
If she some other youth commend, Though I was once his fondest friend, His instant enemy I prove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When she is absent, I no more Delight in all that pleased before - The clearest spring, or shadiest grove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
When fond of power, of beauty vain, Her nets she spread for every swain, I strove to hate, but vainly strove: Tell me, my heart, if this be love?
George Lyttleton [1709-1773]
THE FAIR THIEF
Before the urchin well could go, She stole the whiteness of the snow; And more, that whiteness to adorn, She stole the blushes of the morn; Stole all the sweetness ether sheds On primrose buds and violet beds.
Still to reveal her artful wiles She stole the Graces' silken smiles; She stole Aurora's balmy breath; And pilfered orient pearl for teeth; The cherry, dipped in morning dew, Gave moisture to her lips, and hue.
These were her infant spoils, a store; And she, in time, still pilfered more! At twelve, she stole from Cyprus' queen Her air and love-commanding mien; Stole Juno's dignity; and stole From Pallas sense to charm the soul.
Apollo's wit was next her prey; Her next, the beam that lights the day; She sang; - amazed the Sirens heard, And to assert their voice appeared. She played; - the Muses from their hill, Wondered who thus had stole their skill.
Great Jove approved her crimes and art; And, t'other day, she stole my heart! If lovers, Cupid, are thy care, Exert thy vengeance on this Fair: To trial bring her stolen charms, And let her prison be my arms!
Charles Wyndham [1710-1763]
AMORET
If rightly tuneful bards decide, If it be fixed in Love's decrees, That Beauty ought not to be tried But by its native power to please, Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell - What fair can Amoret excel?
Behold that bright unsullied smile, And wisdom speaking in her mien: Yet - she so artless all the while, So little studious to be seen - We naught but instant gladness know, Nor think to whom the gift we owe.
But neither music, nor the powers Of youth and mirth and frolic cheer, Add half the sunshine to the hours, Or make life's prospect half so clear, As memory brings it to the eye From scenes where Amoret was by.
This, sure, is Beauty's happiest part; This gives the most unbounded sway; This shall enchant the subject heart When rose and lily fade away; And she be still, in spite of Time, Sweet Amoret, in all her prime.
Mark Akenside [1721-1770]
SONG
The shape alone let others prize, The features of the fair: I look for spirit in her eyes, And meaning in her air.
A damask cheek, an ivory arm, Shall ne'er my wishes win: Give me an animated form, That speaks a mind within.
A face where awful honor shines, Where sense and sweetness move, And angel innocence refines The tenderness of love.
These are the soul of beauty's frame; Without whose vital aid Unfinished all her features seem, And all her roses dead.
But ah! where both their charms unite, How perfect is the view, With every image of delight, With graces ever new:
Of power to charm the greatest woe, The wildest rage control, Diffusing mildness o'er the brow, And rapture through the soul.
Their power but faintly to express All language must despair; But go, behold Arpasia's face, And read it perfect there.
Mark Akenside [1721-1770]
KATE OF ABERDEEN
The silver moon's enamored beam Steals softly through the night, To wanton with the winding stream, And kiss reflected light. To beds of state go balmy sleep ('Tis where you've seldom been), May's vigil while the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen.
Upon the green the virgins wait, In rosy chaplets gay, Till morn unbar her golden gate, And give the promised May. Methinks I hear the maids declare, The promised May, when seen, Not half so fragrant, half so fair, As Kate of Aberdeen.
Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, We'll rouse the nodding grove; The nested birds shall raise their throats, And hail the maid of love; And see - the matin lark mistakes, He quits the tufted green: Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks, - 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.
Now lightsome o'er the level mead, Where midnight fairies rove, Like them the jocund dance we'll lead, Or tune the reed to love: For see the rosy May draws nigh, She claims a virgin Queen; And hark, the happy shepherds cry, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.
John Cunningham [1729-1773]
SONG
Who has robbed the ocean cave, To tinge thy lips with coral hue? Who from India's distant wave For thee those pearly treasures drew? Who from yonder orient sky Stole the morning of thine eye?
A thousand charms, thy form to deck, From sea, and earth, and air are torn; Roses bloom upon thy cheek, On thy breath their fragrance borne. Guard thy bosom from the day, Lest thy snows should melt away.
But one charm remains behind, Which mute earth can ne'er impart; Nor in ocean wilt thou find, Nor in the circling air, a heart. Fairest! wouldst thou perfect be, Take, oh, take that heart from me.
John Shaw [1559-1625]
CHLOE
It was the charming month of May, When all the flowers were fresh and gay; One morning, by the break of day, The youthful, charming Chloe From peaceful slumber she arose, Girt on her mantle and her hose, And o'er the flowery mead she goes, The youthful, charming Chloe. Lovely was she by the dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, The youthful, charming Chloe.
The feathered people you might see, Perched all around on every tree, In notes of sweetest melody They hail the charming Chloe; Till, painting gay the eastern skies, The glorious sun began to rise, Out-rivalled by the radiant eyes Of youthful, charming Chloe. Lovely was she by the dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, The youthful, charming Chloe.
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
"O MALLY'S MEEK, MALLY'S SWEET"
As I was walking up the street, A barefit maid I chanced to meet; But O the road was very hard For that fair maiden's tender feet. O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, Mally's modest and discreet, Mally's rare, Mally's fair, Mally's every way complete.
It were more meet that those fine feet Were weel laced up in silken shoon, And 'twere more fit that she should sit Within yon chariot gilt aboon.
Her yellow hair, beyond compare, Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck, And her two eyes, like stars in skies, Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, Mally's modest and discreet, Mally's rare, Mally's fair, Mally's every way complete.
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
THE LOVER'S CHOICE
You, Damon, covet to possess The nymph that sparkles in her dress; Would rustling silks and hoops invade, And clasp an armful of brocade.
Such raise the price of your delight Who purchase both their red and white, And, pirate-like, surprise your heart With colors of adulterate art.
Me, Damon, me the maid enchants Whose cheeks the hand of nature paints; A modest blush adorns her face, Her air an unaffected grace.
No art she knows, or seeks to know; No charm to wealthy pride will owe; No gems, no gold she needs to wear; She shines intrinsically fair.
Thomas Bedingfield [ ? -1613]
RONDEAU REDOUBLE
My day and night are in my lady's hand; I have no other sunrise than her sight; For me her favor glorifies the land; Her anger darkens all the cheerful light. Her face is fairer than the hawthorn white, When all a-flower in May the hedgerows stand; While she is kind, I know of no affright; My day and night are in my lady's hand.
All heaven in her glorious eyes is spanned; Her smile is softer than the summer's night, Gladder than daybreak on the Faery strand; I have no other sunrise than her sight. Her silver speech is like the singing flight Of runnels rippling o'er the jewelled sand; Her kiss a dream of delicate delight; For me her favor glorifies the land.
What if the Winter chase the Summer bland! The gold sun in her hair burns ever bright. If she be sad, straightway all joy is banned; Her anger darkens all the cheerful light. Come weal or woe, I am my lady's knight And in her service every ill withstand; Love is my Lord in all the world's despite And holdeth in the hollow of his hand My day and night.