My Peggy is a young thing, Yet weel I like to meet her at My Peggy speaks sae sweetly I wish nae mair to lay my care By a' the rest - that she sings best. And in her sangs are tald Wi' innocence the wale o' sense, A. Ramsay To Her I Love ELL me, thou soul of her I love, TELL Ah! tell me, whither art thou fled; Or dost thou, free, at pleasure, roam, Can now, O! if thou hoverest round my walk, And every tear is full of thee: Should then the weary eye of grief, 7. Thomson 17. The Young Laird and Edinburgh Katie Now JOW wat ye wha I met yestreen My mistress, in her tartan screen, 18. And leave the dinsome town a while? The bleating lambs and whistling hind, Does bend his morning draught o' dew, 'There's up into a pleasant glen, A wee piece frae my father's tower, Which circling birks ha'e formed a bower; We'll to the cauler shade remove; There will I lock thee in my arm, I Flavia A. Ramsay TOLD my nymph, I told her true, My fields were small, my flocks were few; 19. Of crops destroy'd by vernal cold, And vagrant sheep that left my fold: Of these she heard, yet bore to hear; And is not Flavia then sincere ? How, chang'd by Fortune's fickle wind, How, if she deign my love to bless, Go, shear your flocks, ye jovial swains! I know my Fair Hebe W. Shenstone FAIR Hebe I left, with a cautious design Το escape from her charms, and to drown them in wine, I tried it; but found, when I came to depart, The wine in my head, and still love in my heart. I repaired to my Reason, intreated her aid; Who paused on my case, and each circumstance weighed, Then gravely pronounced, in return to my prayer, 'That Hebe was fairest of all that was fair!' 'That's a truth,' replied I, 'I've no need to be taught; I came for your counsel to find out a fault.' If that's all,' quoth Reason, 'return as you came; To find fault with Hebe, would forfeit my name.' What hopes then, alas! of relief from my pain; 20. YES, J. West, Earl De la Warr The Je Ne Sais Quoi VES, I'm in love, I feel it now, And yet I swear I can't tell how 'Tis not her face which love creates, 'Tis not her shape, for there the fates 'Tis not her air, for sure in that There's nothing more than common; Like any other woman. Her voice, her touch, might give th' alarm; In short, 'twas that provoking charm. Of Celia altogether. W. Whitehead |