The Rose in Yarrow, pp.40-41.

[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

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