[Tea-Table Miscellany Contents]
HAppy’s the love which meets return,
When in soft flames souls equal burn;
But words are wanting to discover
The torments of a hopeless lover.
Ye registers of heav’n, relate,
If looking o’er the rolls of fate,
Did you there see me mark’d to marrow
Mary Scot the flower of Yarrow?
–
Ah no! her form’s too heavenly fair,
Her love the Gods above must share;
While mortals with despair explore her,
And at a distance due adore her.
O lovely maid! my doubts beguile,
Revive and bless me with a smile:
Alas! if not, you’ll soon debar a
Sighing swain the banks of Yarrow.
–
Be hush, ye fears, I’ll not despair,
My Mary’s tender as she’s fair;
Then I’ll go tell her all mine anguish,
She is too good to let me languish:
With success crown’d, I’ll not envy
The folks who dwell above the sky;
When Mary Scot’s become my marrow,
We’ll make a paradise on Yarrow.
