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534

MY PEGGY

My Peggy is a young thing,
Just entered in her teens,
Fair as the day, and sweet as May,
Fair as the day, and always gay':
My Peggy is a young thing,
And I'm na very auld,

Yet weel I like to meet her at
The wauking o' the fauld.:

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly
Whene'er we meet alane,

I wish nae mair to lay my care,
I wish nae mair o' a' that's rare:
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
To a' the lave I'm cauld; I
But she gars a' my spirits glow
At wauking o' the fauld.

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My Peggy sings sae saftly,
When on my pipe I play;
By a' the rest it is confessed,
By a' the rest that she sings best:
My Peggy sings sae saftly,

And in her sangs are tauld,
Wi' innocence the wale o' sense,

At wauking o' the fauld.

Allan Ramsay [1686-1758]

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"TELL ME, MY HEART, IF THIS BE LOVE"

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WHEN Delia on the plain appears,
Awed by a thousand tender fears
I would approach, but dare not move:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear
No other voice than hers can hear,
No other wit but hers approve:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

If she some other youth commend,
Though I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy I prove:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

When she is absent, I no more
Delight in all that pleased before-
The clearest spring, or shadiest grove:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

When fond of power, of beauty vain,
Her nets she spread for every swain, I
I strove to hate, but vainly strove: I'
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?...

George Lyttleton [1709-1773]

THE FAIR THIEF

BEFORE the urchin well could go,
She stole the whiteness of the snow;
And more, that whiteness to adorn,
She stole the blushes of the morn;
Stole all the sweetness ether sheds
On primrose buds and violet beds.

Still to reveal her artful wiles
She stole the Graces' silken smiles;
She stole Aurora's balmy breath;
And pilfered orient pearl for teeth;
The cherry, dipped in morning dew,
Gave moisture to her lips, and hue.

These were her infant spoils, a store;
And she, in time, still pilfered more!
At twelve, she stole from Cyprus' queen
Her air and love-commanding mien;
Stole Juno's dignity; and stole
From Pallas sense to charm the soul.

Apollo's wit was next her prey;

Her next, the beam that lights the day;
She sang; amazed, the Sirens heard,
And to assert their voice appeared.
She played; the Muses from their hill,
Wondered who thus had stole their skill.

Great Jove approved her crimes and art;
And, t'other day, she stole my heart!
If lovers, Cupid, are thy care,
Exert thy vengeance on this Fair:
To trial bring her stolen charms,
And let her prison be my arms!

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Song

537

AMORET

IF rightly tuneful bards decide,
If it be fixed in Love's decrees,
That Beauty ought not to be tried

But by its native power to please,
Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell-
What fair can Amoret excel?

Behold that bright unsullied smile,
And wisdom speaking in her mien:
Yet--she so artless all the while,
So little studious to be seen-
We naught but instant gladness know,
Nor think to whom the gift we owe.

But neither music, nor the powers

Of youth and mirth and frolic cheer,
Add half the sunshine to the hours,
Or make life's prospect half so clear,
As memory brings it to the eye
From scenes where Amoret was by.

This, sure, is Beauty's happiest part;
This gives the most unbounded sway;
This shall enchant the subject heart
When rose and lily fade away;
And she be still, in spite of Time,
Sweet Amoret, in all her prime.

Mark Akenside [1721-1770]

SONG

THE shape alone let others prize,

The features of the fair;

I look for spirit in her eyes,

And meaning in her air,

A damask cheek, an ivory arm,
Shall ne'er my wishes win:
Give me an animated form,

That speaks a mind within.

A face where awful honor shines,
Where sense and sweetness move,
And angel innocence refines

The tenderness of love.

These are the soul of beauty's frame;
Without whose vital aid
Unfinished all her features seem,
And all her roses dead.

But ah! where both their charms unite,
How perfect is the view,
With every image of delight,
With graces ever new:

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Of power to charm the greatest woe,
The wildest rage control,

Diffusing mildness o'er the brow,
And rapture through the soul.

Their power but faintly to express
All language must despair;

But go, behold Arpasia's face,

And read it perfect there.

Mark Akenside [1721-1770]

KATE OF ABERDEEN

THE silver moon's enamored beam
Steals softly through the night,
To wanton with the winding stream,
And kiss reflected light.

To beds of state go balmy sleep

('Tis where you've seldom been), May's vigil while the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen.

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