WHat beauties does Flora disclose?
How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed?
Yet Mary’s still sweeter than those;
Both nature and fancy exceed.
Nor daisie, nor sweet blushing rose,
Not all the gay flowers of the field,
Not Tweed gliding gently thro’ those,
Such beauty and pleasure does yield.
The warblers are heard in the grove,
The linnet, the lark, and the thrush,
The black-bird, and sweet cooing dove,
With musick enchant ev’ry bush.
Come, let us go forth to the mead,
Let us see how the primroses spring,
We’ll lodge in some village on Tweed,
And love while the feather’d folks sing.
How does my love pass the long day?
Does Mary not ‘tend a few sheep?
Do they never carelesly stray,
While happily she lyes asleep?
Tweed’s murmurs should lull her to rest;
Kind nature indulging my bliss,
To relieve the soft pains of my breast,
I’d steal an ambrosial kiss.
‘Tis she does the virgins excell,
No beauty with her may compare;
Love’s graces all round her do dwell,
She’s fairest, where thousands are fair.
Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray?
Oh! tell me at noon where they feed;
Shall I seek them on sweet winding Tay,
Or the pleasanter Banks of the Tweed?
– New Words by Different Hands.