The works of Allan Ramsay edited by Burns Martin ... and John W. Oliver [... and Alexander M. Kinghorn ... and Alexander Law] |
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An Anacreontique on Love.
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 | The works of Allan Ramsay |  |
159
An Anacreontique on Love.
When a' the Warld had clos'd their Een,
Fatigu'd with Labour, Care and Din,
And quietly ilka weary Wight
Enjoy'd the Silence of the Night:
Then Cupid, that ill-deedy Get,
With a' his Pith rapt at my Yet.
Surpriz'd, throw Sleep, I cry'd, Wha's that?
Quoth he, A poor young Wean a' wet;
Oh! haste ye apen,—fear nae Skaith,
Else soon this Storm will be my Death.
Fatigu'd with Labour, Care and Din,
And quietly ilka weary Wight
Enjoy'd the Silence of the Night:
Then Cupid, that ill-deedy Get,
With a' his Pith rapt at my Yet.
Surpriz'd, throw Sleep, I cry'd, Wha's that?
Quoth he, A poor young Wean a' wet;
Oh! haste ye apen,—fear nae Skaith,
Else soon this Storm will be my Death.
With his Complaint my Saul grew wae,
For as he said I thought it sae;
I took a Light, and fast did rin
To let the chittering Infant in:
And he appear'd to be nae Kow,
For a' his Quiver, Wings and Bow.
His bairnly Smiles and Looks gave Joy,
He seem'd sae innocent a Boy:
I led him ben but any Pingle,
And beekt him brawly at my Ingle;
Dighted his Face, his Handies thow'd,
'Till his young Cheeks, like Roses, glow'd.
But soon as he grew warm and fain,
Let's try, quoth he, if that the Rain
Has wrang'd ought of my sporting Gear,
And if my Bow-string's hale and fier.
With that his Arch'ry Graith he put
In order, and made me his Butt;
Mov'd back apiece,—his Bow he drew;
Fast throw my Breast his Arrow flew.
That done, as if he'd found a Nest,
He leugh, and with unsonsy Jest,
Cry'd, Nibour, I'm right blyth in Mind,
That in good Tift my Bow I find:
Did not my Arrow flie right smart?
Ye'll find it sticking in your Heart.
For as he said I thought it sae;
I took a Light, and fast did rin
To let the chittering Infant in:
And he appear'd to be nae Kow,
For a' his Quiver, Wings and Bow.
His bairnly Smiles and Looks gave Joy,
He seem'd sae innocent a Boy:
I led him ben but any Pingle,
And beekt him brawly at my Ingle;
Dighted his Face, his Handies thow'd,
'Till his young Cheeks, like Roses, glow'd.
But soon as he grew warm and fain,
Let's try, quoth he, if that the Rain
Has wrang'd ought of my sporting Gear,
And if my Bow-string's hale and fier.
With that his Arch'ry Graith he put
In order, and made me his Butt;
Mov'd back apiece,—his Bow he drew;
Fast throw my Breast his Arrow flew.
That done, as if he'd found a Nest,
He leugh, and with unsonsy Jest,
160
That in good Tift my Bow I find:
Did not my Arrow flie right smart?
Ye'll find it sticking in your Heart.
| The works of Allan Ramsay | |