O, my luve is like the melodie,

That's sweetly play'd in tune.

II.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I,

And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

III.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun! And I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run.

IV.

And fare the weel, my only luve, And fare the weel a while! And I will come again, my luve,

Tho' it were ten thousand mile!

15.

Mary Morison.

I.

O MARY, at thy window be!

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour.
Those smiles and glances let me see,

A

That make the miser's treasure poor.

How blythely wad I bide the stoure, weary slave frae sun to sun,

Could I the rich reward secure

The lovely Mary Morison !

II.

Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard or saw:
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd and said amang them a':
"Ye are na Mary Morison!"

III.

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown:
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

Henderson and Henley's Text.

16.

LORD BYRON.

She Walks in Beauty.

I.

SHE walks in Beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

II.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

III.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

17. Oh! Snatched Away in Beauty's Bloom.

I.

OH! snatched away in beauty's bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear

Their leaves, the earliest of the year; And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom :

II.

And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread; Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead!

III.

Away! we know that tears are vain,

That Death nor heeds nor hears distress: