The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 33

If gay attire delight thine eye I'll dight me in array; I'll tend thy chamber door all night, And squire thee all the day.

If sweetest sounds can win thine ear, These sounds I'll strive to catch; Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysel', That voice that nane can match.

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; O tell me how to woo thee!

For thy dear sake nae care I'll take Though ne'er another trow me.

But if fond love thy heart can gain, I never broke a vow; Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, I never loved but you.

For you alone I ride the ring, For you I wear the blue; For you alone I strive to sing, O tell me how to woo!

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love; O tell me how to woo thee!

For thy dear sake nae care I'll take Though ne'er another trow me.

Robert Cunninghame-Graham [?--1797?]

"MY HEART IS A LUTE"

Alas, that my heart is a lute, Whereon you have learned to play!

For a many years it was mute, Until one summer's day You took it, and touched it, and made it thrill, And it thrills and throbs, and quivers still!

I had known you, dear, so long!

Yet my heart did not tell me why It should burst one morn into song, And wake to new life with a cry, Like a babe that sees the light of the sun, And for whom this great world has just begun.

Your lute is enshrined, cased in, Kept close with love's magic key, So no hand but yours can win And wake it to minstrelsy; Yet leave it not silent too long, nor alone, Lest the strings should break, and the music be done.

Anne Barnard [1750-1825]

SONG From "The Duenna"

Had I a heart for falsehood framed, I ne'er could injure you; For though your tongue no promise claimed, Your charms would make me true: Then, lady, dread not here deceit, Nor fear to suffer wrong, For friends in all the aged you'll meet, And lovers in the young.

But when they find that you have blessed Another with your heart, They'll bid aspiring pa.s.sion rest, And act a brother's part: Then, lady, dread not here deceit Nor fear to suffer wrong; For friends in all the aged you'll meet, And brothers in the young.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan [1751-1816]

MEETING

My Damon was the first to wake The gentle flame that cannot die; My Damon is the last to take The faithful bosom's softest sigh: The life between is nothing worth, O cast it from thy thought away!

Think of the day that gave it birth, And this its sweet returning day.

Buried be all that has been done, Or say that naught is done amiss; For who the dangerous path can shun In such bewildering world as this?

But love can every fault forgive, Or with a tender look reprove; And now let naught in memory live But that we meet, and that we love.

George Crabbe [1754-1832]

"O WERE MY LOVE YON LILAC FAIR"

O were my Love yon lilac fair, Wi' purple blossoms to the spring, And I a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing; How I wad mourn when it was torn By autumn wild and winter rude!

But I wad sing on wanton wing When youthfu' May its bloom renewed.

O gin my Love were yon red rose That grows upon the castle wa', And I mysel a drap o' dew, Into her bonnie breast to fa'; O there, beyond expression blest, I'd feast on beauty a' the night; Sealed on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fleyed awa' by Phoebus' light.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

"BONNIE WEE THING"

Bonnie wee thing! cannie wee thing!

Lovely wee thing! wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine.

Wishfully I look, and languish In that bonnie face o' thine; And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, Lest my wee thing be na mine.

Wit and grace, and love and beauty, In ae constellation shine; To adore thee is my duty, G.o.ddess o' this soul o' mine!

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom, Lest my jewel I should tine.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

ROSE AYLMER

Ah, what avails the sceptered race!

Ah, what the form divine!

What every virtue, every grace!

Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and sighs I consecrate to thee.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

"TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE"

Written On Returning A Blank Book

Take back the Virgin Page White and unwritten still; Some hand more calm and sage The leaf must fill.

Thoughts came as pure as light-- Pure as even you require: But oh! each word I write Love turns to fire.