John Payne [1842-1916]
"MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET"
My love she's but a lassie yet, A lightsome lovely lassie yet; It scarce wad do To sit an' woo Down by the stream sae glassy yet.
But there's a braw time coming yet, When we may gang a-roaming yet; An' hint wi' glee O' joys to be, When fa's the modest gloaming yet.
She's neither proud nor saucy yet, She's neither plump nor gaucy yet; But just a jinking, Bonny blinking, Hilty-skilty lassie yet.
But O, her artless smile's mair sweet Than hinny or than marmalete; 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 kisses her, The flowery beds 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, And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.
She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie; For guileless simplicity marks her its ain; And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flower o' Dunblane.
Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening! Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.
How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie! The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.
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, If wanting sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.
Robert Tannahill [1774-1810]
MARGARET AND DORA
Margaret's beauteous - Grecian arts Ne'er drew form completer, Yet why, in my hearts of hearts, Hold I Dora's sweeter?
Dora's eyes of heavenly blue Pass all painting's reach, Ringdoves' notes are discord to The music of her speech.
Artists! Margaret's smile receive, And on canvas show it; But for perfect worship leave Dora to her poet.
Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]
DAGONET'S CANZONET
A queen lived in the South; And music was her mouth, And sunshine was her hair, By day, and all the night The drowsy embers there Remembered still the light; My soul, was she not fair!
But for her eyes - they made An iron man afraid; Like sky-blue pools they were, Watching the sky that knew Itself transmuted there Light blue, or deeper blue; My soul, was she not fair!
The lifting of her hands Made laughter in the lands Where the sun is, in the South: But my soul learnt sorrow there In the secrets of her mouth, Her eyes, her hands, her hair: O soul, was she not fair!
Ernest Rhys [1859-
STANZAS FOR MUSIC
There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lulled winds seem dreaming.
And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep, Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore 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: - A rose I marked, and might have plucked; but she Blushed as she bent, imploring me to spare her, Nor spoil her beauty by such rivalry. Alas! and with what gifts shall I pursue thee, What offerings bring, what treasures lay before thee; When earth with all her floral train doth woo thee, And all old poets and old songs adore thee; And love to thee is naught; from passionate mood Secured by joy's complacent plenitude!
Aubrey Thomas de Vere [1814-1902]
"IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND"
It is not Beauty I demand, A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair:
Tell me not of your starry eyes, Your lips that seem on roses fed, Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed: -
A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, A breath that softer music speaks Than summer winds a-wooing flowers, -
These are but gauds: nay, what are lips? Coral beneath the ocean-stream, Whose brink when your adventurer sips Full oft he perisheth on them.
And what are cheeks but ensigns oft That wave hot youth to fields of blood? Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, Do Greece or Ilium any good?
Eyes can with baleful ardor burn; Poison can breathe, that erst perfumed; There's many a white hand holds an urn With lovers' hearts to dust consumed.
For crystal brows - there's naught within; They are but empty cells for pride; He who the Siren's hair would win Is mostly strangled in the tide.
Give me, instead of Beauty's bust, A tender heart, a loyal mind Which with temptation I could trust, Yet never linked with error find, -
One in whose gentle bosom I Could pour my secret heart of woes, Like the care-burthened honey-fly That hides his murmurs in the rose, -
My earthly Comforter! whose love So indefeasible might be That, when my spirit won above, Hers could not stay, for sympathy.
George Darley [1795-1846]
SONG
She is not fair to outward view As many maidens be, Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me; Oh! then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light.
But now her looks are coy and cold, To mine they ne'er reply, And yet I cease not to behold The love-light in her eye: Her very frowns are fairer far Than smiles of other maidens are.
Hartley Coleridge [1796-1849]
SONG
A violet in her lovely hair, A rose upon her bosom fair! But O, her eyes A lovelier violet disclose, And her ripe lips the sweetest rose That's 'neath the skies.
A lute beneath her graceful hand Breathes music forth at her command; But still her tongue Far richer music calls to birth Than all the minstrel power on earth Can give to song.
And thus she moves in tender light, The purest ray, where all is bright, Serene, and sweet; And sheds a graceful influence round, That hallows e'en the very ground Beneath her feet!
Charles Swain [1801-1874]
EILEEN AROON
When like the early rose, Eileen Aroon! Beauty in childhood blows, Eileen Aroon! When, like a diadem, Buds blush around the stem, Which is the fairest gem? - Eileen Aroon!
Is it the laughing eye, Eileen Aroon! Is it the timid sigh, Eileen Aroon! Is it the tender tone, Soft as the stringed harp's moan? O, it is truth alone, - Eileen Aroon!
When like the rising day, Eileen Aroon! Love sends his early ray, Eileen Aroon! What makes his dawning glow, Changeless through joy or woe? Only the constant know: - Eileen Aroon!
I know a valley fair, Eileen Aroon! I knew a cottage there, Eileen Aroon! Far in that valley's shade I knew a gentle maid, Flower of a hazel glade, - Eileen Aroon!
Who in the song so sweet? Eileen Aroon! Who in the dance so fleet? Eileen Aroon! Dear were her charms to me Dearer her laughter free, Dearest her constancy, - Eileen Aroon!
Were she no longer true, Eileen Aroon! What should her lover do? Eileen Aroon! Fly with his broken chain Far o'er the sounding main, Never to love again, - Eileen Aroon!
Youth must with time decay, Eileen Aroon! Beauty must fade away, Eileen Aroon! Castles are sacked in war, Chieftains are scattered far, Truth is a fixed star, - Eileen Aroon!
Gerald Griffin [1803-1840]
ANNIE LAURIE
Maxwelton braes are bonnie Where early fa's the dew, And it's there that Annie Laurie Gie'd me her promise true - Gie'd me her promise true, Which ne'er forgot will be; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doun and dee.
Her brow is like the snaw-drift; Her throat is like the swan; Her face it is the fairest That e'er the sun shone on - That e'er the sun shone on - And dark blue is her ee; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doun and dee.
Like dew on the gowan lying Is the fa' o' her fairy feet; And like the winds in summer sighing, Her voice is low and sweet - Her voice is low and sweet - And she's a' the world to me; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doun and dee.
William Douglas [1672?-1748]
TO HELEN
Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicaean barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, wayworn wanderer bore To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome.