"Dinna Ask Me" Look deeper still. If thou canst feel, That thou hast kept a portion back, While I have staked the whole, 1163 Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so. Is there within thy heart a need That mine cannot fulfil? One chord that any other hand Could better wake or still? Speak now-lest at some future day my whole life wither and decay. Lives there within thy nature hid The demon-spirit change, Shedding a passing glory still On all things new and strange? It may not be thy fault alone, but shield my heart against thy own. Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day And answer to my claim, That Fate, and that to-day's mistake— Not thou-had been to blame? Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou wilt surely warn and save me now. Nay, answer not, I dare not hear, The words would come too late; So, comfort thee, my Fate, Whatever on my heart may fall—remember, I would risk it O, dinna look sae sair at me, For weel ye ken me true; When ye gang to yon braw, braw town, O, dinna, Jamie, look at them, For I could never bide the lass A SONG John Dunlop [1755-1820] SING me a sweet, low song of night Before the moon is risen, A song that tells of the stars' delight A song that croons with the cricket's voice, A song that shall bid my heart rejoice And then when the song is ended, love, The oldest of words, O heart of mine, THE REASON Он, hark the pulses of the night, The crickets hidden in the field, That beat out music of delight Till summoned dawn stands half revealed! "My Own Cáilin Donn" Oh, mark above the bearded corn And the green wheat and bending rye, And know, divided soul of me, Here in the meadow, sweet in speech, Were we not mated each to each. James Oppenheim [1882 "MY OWN CÁILIN DONN" 1165 THE blush is on the flower, and the bloom is on the tree, And the bonnie, bonnie sweet birds are caroling their glee; And the dews upon the grass are made diamonds by the sun, All to deck a path of glory for my own Cáilin Donn! Oh fair she is! Oh rare she is! Oh dearer still to me, More welcome than the green leaf to winter-stricken tree! More welcome than the blossom to the weary, dusty bee, Is the coming of my true love-my own Cáilin Donn! O sycamore! O sycamore! wave, wave your banners green! Ring out, ring out, O linden, your merry leafy bells! She is coming, where we parted, where she wanders every day; There's a gay surprise before her who thinks me far away; Oh, like hearing bugles triumph when the fight of freedom's won, Is the joy around your footsteps, my own Cáilin Donn! NOCTURNE ALL the earth a hush of white, White with moonlight all the skies; And . . . your eyes. Hues no palette dares to claim Darkness as the shadows creep Silence of a world asleep And . . . your breast. Amelia Josephine Burr [1878 SURRENDER As I look back upon your first embrace Amelia Josephine Burr [1878 "BY YON BURN SIDE" WE'LL meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side, And there we may be seen, Yet we'll meet--we'll meet at e'en, down by yon burn side. A Pastoral I'll lead thee to the birken bower, on yon burn side, 1167 Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flower, on yon burn side; There the busy prying eye, Ne'er disturbs the lover's joy, While in ither's arms they lie, down by yon burn side. Awa', ye rude, unfeeling crew, frae yon burn side, By the sweetly murmuring stream, And the rock-lodged echoes skim, down by yon burn side. Now the plantin' taps are tinged wi' goud, on yon burn side, And gloamin' draws her foggy shroud o'er yon burn side; Far frae the noisy scene, I'll through the fields alane, There we'll meet, my ain dear Jean, down by yon burn side. Robert Tannahill [1774-1810] A PASTORAL FLOWER of the medlar, I saw her at the blossom-time, Whiteness of the white rose, Redness of the red, She went to cut the blush-rose buds To tie at the altar-head; And some she laid in her bosom, |