 | Peter Cornclips |  |
ISABELL.
When lads and lasses a' convene,
To daff awa' an hour at e'en,
I tak' my way across the green,
To meet my Isabell.
I meet her at our trysting place,
Where midst our mutual fond embrace,
The blushes on her bonnie face,
Her bosom-secrets tell;
And O how swift the moments pass,
When seated on the verdant grass,
I snatch a kiss frae my dear lass,
My blooming Isabell.
To daff awa' an hour at e'en,
I tak' my way across the green,
To meet my Isabell.
I meet her at our trysting place,
Where midst our mutual fond embrace,
The blushes on her bonnie face,
Her bosom-secrets tell;
And O how swift the moments pass,
When seated on the verdant grass,
I snatch a kiss frae my dear lass,
My blooming Isabell.
134
How sweet—on such an hour at e'en,
Beneath the silver moon serene,
Whose mellow tints give each lov'd scene
A soft bewitching spell;
How sweet! to meet my lassie dear,
Down by yon burnie, wimpling clear,
Where sweetly bloom the scented brier,
The violet and blue bell;
And there to clasp her to my breast,
And hear her love for me confest,
O then! what youth is half so blest,
As I wi' Isabell?
Beneath the silver moon serene,
Whose mellow tints give each lov'd scene
A soft bewitching spell;
How sweet! to meet my lassie dear,
Down by yon burnie, wimpling clear,
Where sweetly bloom the scented brier,
The violet and blue bell;
And there to clasp her to my breast,
And hear her love for me confest,
O then! what youth is half so blest,
As I wi' Isabell?
The city belle, the reigning toast,
A fairer face, perhaps, may boast,
But what is beauty's date at most?
Let age or sickness tell;
A transient rainbow in the sky;
A tender flower that blooms to die;
A feeble noon-day butterfly,
Cut off in evening snell:
But Isabella's beauties rare,
That hidden frae the vulgar stare,
Will ever blossom rich and fair,
As lasting as hersel'.
A fairer face, perhaps, may boast,
But what is beauty's date at most?
Let age or sickness tell;
A transient rainbow in the sky;
A tender flower that blooms to die;
A feeble noon-day butterfly,
Cut off in evening snell:
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That hidden frae the vulgar stare,
Will ever blossom rich and fair,
As lasting as hersel'.
Thou! Power who rul'st this earth below,
And met'st our shares o' joy and woe,
The richest boon thou canst bestow,
On me—is Isabell;
The warlike chief may fight for fame,
The wily priest a mitre claim,
The groveling grub for gear may scheme,
To suit its sordid sel';
Sic things are far beneath my care,
For them I'll ne'er prefer a prayer,
But O gie me my lassie fair!
My lovely Isabell.
And met'st our shares o' joy and woe,
The richest boon thou canst bestow,
On me—is Isabell;
The warlike chief may fight for fame,
The wily priest a mitre claim,
The groveling grub for gear may scheme,
To suit its sordid sel';
Sic things are far beneath my care,
For them I'll ne'er prefer a prayer,
But O gie me my lassie fair!
My lovely Isabell.
| Peter Cornclips | |