[Tea-Table Miscellany Contents]
To the Tune of, Mary Scot.
–
‘TWas summer and the day was fair,
Resolv’d a while to fly from care,
Beguiling thought, forgetting sorrow,
I wander’d o’er the braes of Yarrow;
Till then despising beauty’s power,
I kept my heart, my own secure:
But Cupid’s art did there deceive me,
And Mary’s charms do now enslave me.
–
Will cruel love no bribe receive?
No ransom take for Mary’s slave?
Her frowns of rest and hope deprive me:
Her lovely smiles like light revive me.
No bondage may with mine compare,
Since first I saw this charming fair:
This beauteous flower, this rose of Yarrow,
In nature’s gardens has no marrow.
–
Had I of heaven but one request,
I’d ask to ly in Mary’s breast;
There would I live or die with pleasure,
Nor spare this world one moment’s leisure;
Despising kings and all that’s great,
I’d smile at courts and courtiers fate;
My joy complete on such a marrow,
I’d dwell with her and live on Yarrow.
–
But tho’ such bliss I ne’er should gain;
Contented still I’ll wear my chain,
In hopes my faithful heart may move her;
For leaving life I’ll always love her.
What doubts distract a lover’s mind?
That breast, all softness, must prove kind;
And she shall yet become my marrow,
The lovely beauteous rose of Yarrow.
– New Words by Different Hands.
