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Ah! little bee how blest thy fate
Thy lot was joy divine,
To meet a death like thine.
[Our old collections of songs contain many versions of the above, in some the lady is called Selinda. The Editor thinks the present copy of the song is most preferable.]
WE ALL TO BEAUTY BOW.
We all to conquering beauty bow,
Its pleasing power admire;
That could like yours inspire:
Amazes all mankind;
With too much light am blind.
When longing lovers meet,
Like new-blown roses, sweet ;
Each happy night a bride ;
And yet no spark of pride.
The patriarch to win a wife,
Chaste, beautiful, and young,
And never thought it long :
Ah! were you to reward such care,
And life so long would stay,
Would seem but as one day.
AN EXCUSE FOR DRINKING.
Upbraid me not, capricious fair,
With drinking to excess;
Were your indifference less.
Love me, my dear, and you shall find,
When this excuse is gone,
Is fixed on her alone.
The god of wine the victory
To beauty yields with joy ;
When Ariadne's coy.
TO THE BROOK.
To the brook and the willow that heard him complain, Poor Colin went weeping and told them his pain; Sweet stream, he cried, sadly I'll teach thee to flow, And thy waters shall mournfully run with my woe.
In sorrow and anguish my Mary now lies,
Let me be left restless, my eyes never close,
[The copy of this song is given from two or three versions contained in different collections. In many of the songs in this volume printed without any name, there is much prettiness and much ele. gance, but something of affectation runs through the whole of them and much inequality. From all parts, from all odd volumes, and from different manuscripts these songs found their way into our Anthologies, it is not improbable but that several of them are the compositions of the various collectors and compilers.
One would almost imagine that Burns had seen the above songwhen he wrote his beautifullyric in honour of Mrs. General Stewart:
"Flow gently sweet Afton among thy green braes.")
Ah! bright Belinda, hither fly,
And such a light discover, As may the absent sun supply,
And chear the drooping lover.
Arise, my day, with speed arise,
And all my sorrows banish : Before the sun of thy bright eyes,
All gloomy terrors vanish.
No longer let me sigh in vain,
And curse the hoarded treasure: Why should you love to give us pain,
When you were made for pleasure ?
The petty powers of hell destroy ;
To save the pride of heaven :
If kind, the last is given.
The choice then sure's not hard to make,
Betwixt a good and evil : Which title had you rather take,
My goddess, or, my devil ?
'TIS NOT THE BRIGHTNESS OF THOSE EYES.
'Tis not the liquid brightness of those eyes,
'Tis not the living colours over each,