The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd Centenary Edition. With a Memoir of the Author, by the Rev. Thomas Thomson ... Poems and Life. With Many Illustrative Engravings [by James Hogg] |
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A Ballad about Love.
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
A Ballad about Love.
I aince fell in love wi' a sweet young thing,
A bonnie bit flower o' the wilder'd dell;
Her heart was as light as bird on the wing,
And her lip was as ripe as the moorland bell.
She never kend aught o' the ways o' sin,
Though whiles her young heart began to doubt
That wi' its ill paths she might fa' in,
But never—she never did find them out.
A bonnie bit flower o' the wilder'd dell;
Her heart was as light as bird on the wing,
And her lip was as ripe as the moorland bell.
She never kend aught o' the ways o' sin,
Though whiles her young heart began to doubt
That wi' its ill paths she might fa' in,
But never—she never did find them out.
She oft had heard tell o' love's dear pain,
An' how sae sair as it was to dree;
She tried it and tried it again and again,
But it never could wring a tear frae her e'e.
She tried it aince on a mitherless lamb
That lay in her bosom, and fed on her knee;
But it turned an unpurpose and beggarly ram,
And her burly lover she doughtna see.
An' how sae sair as it was to dree;
She tried it and tried it again and again,
But it never could wring a tear frae her e'e.
She tried it aince on a mitherless lamb
That lay in her bosom, and fed on her knee;
But it turned an unpurpose and beggarly ram,
And her burly lover she doughtna see.
She tried it neist on a floweret gay,
And oh! it was sweet and lovely of hue;
But it droopit its head, an' fadit away,
An' left the lassie to look for a new.
An' aye she cried, oh! what shall I do?
Why canna a lassie be happy her lane?
I find my heart maun hae something to loe,
An' I dinna ken where to fix it again.
And oh! it was sweet and lovely of hue;
But it droopit its head, an' fadit away,
An' left the lassie to look for a new.
An' aye she cried, oh! what shall I do?
Why canna a lassie be happy her lane?
I find my heart maun hae something to loe,
An' I dinna ken where to fix it again.
The laverock loes her musical mate,
The moorcock loes the mottled moor-hen;
The blackbird lilts it early an' late,
A-wooing his love in the birken glen;
The yammering tewit and gray curlew,
Hae ilk ane lovers around to flee,
An' please their hearts wi' their whillie—la—lu—
But there's naething to wheedle or sing to me.
The moorcock loes the mottled moor-hen;
The blackbird lilts it early an' late,
A-wooing his love in the birken glen;
The yammering tewit and gray curlew,
Hae ilk ane lovers around to flee,
An' please their hearts wi' their whillie—la—lu—
But there's naething to wheedle or sing to me.
Quo' I, my sweet, my innocent flower,
The matter's as plain as plain can be,
That this heart o' mine it was made for yours,
An' yours was made for loving o' me.
The lassie she lookit me in the face,
An' a tear o' pity was in her e'e,
For she thought I had lost a' sense o' grace,
An' every scrap o' fair modestye.
The matter's as plain as plain can be,
That this heart o' mine it was made for yours,
An' yours was made for loving o' me.
The lassie she lookit me in the face,
An' a tear o' pity was in her e'e,
For she thought I had lost a' sense o' grace,
An' every scrap o' fair modestye.
The lassie she thought an' thought again,
An' lookit to heaven if aught she saw,
For she thought that man was connectit wi' sin,
And that love for him was the warst of a'.
She lookit about, but she didna speak,
As lightly she trippit out-ower the lea;
But there was a smile on her rosy cheek,
That tauld of a secret dear to me.
An' lookit to heaven if aught she saw,
For she thought that man was connectit wi' sin,
And that love for him was the warst of a'.
She lookit about, but she didna speak,
As lightly she trippit out-ower the lea;
But there was a smile on her rosy cheek,
That tauld of a secret dear to me.
The lassie gaed hame to her lanely dell,
It never was lovelier to her view;
An' aye she thought an' thought to hersell,
An' the mair she thought she began to rue—
If ilk sweet thing has a' mate o' its ain,
Wi' nature's law I e'en maun gang;
I never was made for living my lane—
The laddie was right an' I was wrang.
It never was lovelier to her view;
An' aye she thought an' thought to hersell,
An' the mair she thought she began to rue—
If ilk sweet thing has a' mate o' its ain,
Wi' nature's law I e'en maun gang;
I never was made for living my lane—
The laddie was right an' I was wrang.
O Nature! we a' maun yield to thee;
Your regal sway gainsay wha can?
For you made beauty, an' beauty maun be
The polar star o' the heart o' man.
There's beauty in man's commanding frame;
There's beauty in earth, in air, an' sea;
But there never was beauty that tongue could name
Like the smile of love in a fond young e'e.
Your regal sway gainsay wha can?
For you made beauty, an' beauty maun be
The polar star o' the heart o' man.
There's beauty in man's commanding frame;
There's beauty in earth, in air, an' sea;
But there never was beauty that tongue could name
Like the smile of love in a fond young e'e.
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |