Yet after all, could you but love,
No more would I pursue
The endless search of joys above,
But find out Heav'n in you.

DORIN DA.

Her eyes are like the morning bright,
Her cheeks like roses fair,

Her breasts like water'd lilies white,
Like silk her flowing hair.

Her breath's as sweet as odours blown
By Zephyrus on the vales;
Her skin as fine and soft as down,
Her voice like nightingales.

Where'er she breathes, where'er she sings

How happy are the groves;

How blest! how much more blest than kings,

The Shepherd that she loves.

With gentle steps let's beat the ground,

In gladsome couples join'd;

For joy that your Dorinda's found

And every lover kind.

TO CHARMING CELIA'S ARMS 1 FLEW.

TOM BROWN.

Died 1704.

With alterations and additions by Burns.

To charming Celia's arms I flew
And there all night I feasted,
No god such transport ever knew,
Or mortal ever tasted.*

Lost in sweet tumultuous joy

And bless'd beyond expressing,
How can your slave, my fair, said I,
Reward so great a blessing?

The whole creation's wealth survey,
O'er both the Indies wander,
Ask what brib'd senates give away

And fighting monarchs squander.

The richest spoils of earth and air,
The rifled ocean's treasure,
Tis all too poor a bribe by far,
To purchase so much pleasure.§

* Burns made the first verse thus :

+ Pleas'd.

The other night with all her charms
My ardent passion crowning,

Fair Celia sunk within my arms
An equal transport owning.

+ Thro'.

§ Unequal to my pleasure.

[Humility's a heavenly grace,
And Diffidence her sister;

And Modesty's sweet maiden face-
What mortal can resist her.]

She blushing cried,—my Life my dear
Since Celia thus you fancy,

Give her-but tis too much I fear
A rundlet of right Nantzy.

[These alterations and additions of Burns' are taken from part of a letter of his to George Thomson, which is still unpublished. The verse given in a bracket is wholly Burns' and is very characteristic of him. "The Song," the poet writes, "will suit very well to the tune of Nancy's to the Greenwood gone,' you must not expect all your English Songs to have superlative merit, 'tis enough if they are passable!" Brown's works are full of shrewdness and conceit but his little talent was thrown away on indecency. He lies buried in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey.]

LIKE MAY IN ALL HER YOUTHFUL DRESS.

Like May in all her youthful dress,
My love in sweets did once appear,
A spring of charms dwelt on her face,
And roses did inhabit there.

Thus while th' enjoyment was but young,
Each night new pleasures did create,
Harmonious words dropp'd from her tongue,
And Cupid on her forehead sate.

But as the sun to west declines,

The eastern sky does colder grow;
And all its blushing looks resigns
To Luna's silver beams below:

While Love was eager, brisk and warm
My Chloe then was kind and gay;
But when through time I ceas'd to charm
Her smiles like Autumn dropp'd away.

ON YOUNG OLINDA.

When innocence, and beauty meet,
To add to lovely female grace,
Ah, how beyond expression sweet
Is every feature of the face.

By Virtue, ripened from the bud
The flower angelic odours breeds,
The fragrant charms of being good
Makes gaudy vice to smell like weeds.

O sacred virtue, tune my voice,
With thy inspiring harmony;
Then I shall sing of raptur'd joys
And fill my soul with love of thee.

To lasting brightness be refin'd,
When this vain shadow flies away,
Th' eternal beauties of the mind

Will last, when all things else decay.

AS I WALK'D FORTH ONE SUMMER'S DAY.

As I walk'd forth one summer's day,
To view the meadows green and gay—
A cool-retreating bower I spied—
That flourished near the river's side-
Where oft in tears a maid would cry-
Did ever maiden love as, I.

Then o'er the grassy fields she'd walk—
And nipping flowers low by the stalk,
Such flowers as in the meadow grew-
The deadman's thumb-and harebell blue-
And as she pull'd them, still cried she-
Alas none ever lov'd like me.

Such flowers as gave the sweetest scents
She bound about with knotty bents,
And as she bound them up in bands-
She sigh'd and wept and wrung her hands;
Alas, alas! still sobbed she,

Alas! none ever lov'd like me.

When she had fill'd her apron full,
Of all the flowers that she could cull-
The tender leaves serv'd for a bed-
The scented flowers to rest her head-
Then down she laid-nor sigh'd nor spake-
With love her gentle heart did break.