Be she fairer than the day
Or the flowery meads in May-
If she be not so to me
What care I how fair she be ?
Shall my silly heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind;
Or a well disposéd nature
Joinéd with a lovely feature ?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,
If she be not so to me
What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings known
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of Best ;
If she seem not such to me,
What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die ?
She that bears a noble mind
If not outward helps she find,
Thinks what with them he would do
Who without them dares her woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I though great she be?
Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair ;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve ;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
G. Wither.
HENCE, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly :
There's nought in this life sweet
If man were wise to see't,
But only melancholy,
O sweetest Melancholy !
Welcome, folded arms, and fixéd eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fastend to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound !
Fountain heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves !
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed save bats and owls ! 15
A midnight bell, a parting groan !
These are the sounds we feed upon ;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley ;
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
J. Fletcher.
O WALY waly up the bank,
And waly waly down the brae,
And waly waly yon burn-side
Where I and my Love wont to gae!
I leant my back unto an aik,
I thought it was a trusty tree;
But first it bow'd, and syne it brak,
Sae my true Love did lichtly me.
O waly waly, but love be bonny
A little time while it is new;
But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld
And fades awa' like morning dew.
O wherefore should I busk my head ?
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true Love has me forsook,
And says he'll never loe me mair.
Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed ;
The sheets shall ne'er be prest by me:
St. Anton's well sall be my drink,
Since my true Love has forsaken me.
Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
O gentle Death, when wilt thou come ?
For of my life I am wearie.
'Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,
Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie ;
'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,
But my Love's heart grown cauld to me.
When we came in by Glasgow town
We were a comely sight to see ;
My Love was clad in black velvét,
And I mysell in cramasie.
But had 1 wist, before I kist,
That love had been sae ill to win;
I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd
And pinn'd it with a siller pin.
And, O! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse's knee,
And I mysell were dead and gane,
And the green grass growing over me!
Anon.
Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succour me!
O think na but my heart was sair
When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair : 10
I laid her down wi' meikle care
On fair Kirconnell lea.
As I went down the water side,
None but my foe to be my guide,
None but my foe to be my guide,
On fair Kirconnell lea ;
I lighted down my sword to draw,
I hacked him in pieces sma',
I hackéd him in pieces sma',
For her sake that died for me.
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