 | Young Arthur |  |
26
The turf was with daisies o'erstrew'd
Where, near to the closing of day,
A youth, in a petulant mood,
His tablets inscribed with a lay:
The lines I have sung he had trac'd with a sigh;
And, while love he disclaim'd, to the exquisite eye
Of sport fav'ring fancy, Love, laughing, stood by.
Where, near to the closing of day,
A youth, in a petulant mood,
His tablets inscribed with a lay:
The lines I have sung he had trac'd with a sigh;
And, while love he disclaim'd, to the exquisite eye
Of sport fav'ring fancy, Love, laughing, stood by.
The turf was with daisies o'erstrew'd;
The daisy, meek modesty's flow'r,
Which Burns (scarcely rivall'd tho' rude)
Sung sweetly when “crush'd 'mang the stoure.”
O, Burns, to Old Scotia thou gav'st a green wreath,
Which fame to posterity, proud, shall bequeath;
And its nerv'd leaves shall flourish, defying decay,
When the flowers of trim fancy “are a' wede away.”
The daisy, meek modesty's flow'r,
Which Burns (scarcely rivall'd tho' rude)
Sung sweetly when “crush'd 'mang the stoure.”
O, Burns, to Old Scotia thou gav'st a green wreath,
Which fame to posterity, proud, shall bequeath;
And its nerv'd leaves shall flourish, defying decay,
When the flowers of trim fancy “are a' wede away.”
The youth thus for love all forlorn
He lay, tho' affecting to smile,
Bewailing the insolent scorn
Of the maid, who for sport could beguile;
Oh! Woman, whose face speaks perpetual youth,
Whose bosom seems form'd as a shrine for chaste truth,
Ah! why should they call thee coquette, and speak sooth?
He lay, tho' affecting to smile,
Bewailing the insolent scorn
Of the maid, who for sport could beguile;
Oh! Woman, whose face speaks perpetual youth,
Whose bosom seems form'd as a shrine for chaste truth,
Ah! why should they call thee coquette, and speak sooth?
27
But diamonds may specks have and flaws,
And the rose have a blight at the core;
Then pity the sex for this cause,
Man taught 'em deceit long before.
Poor youth! cease to languish, and idly complain,
For grief brings the vigour of life to the wane,
And, had'st thou thy wish, all thy prize might be pain.
And the rose have a blight at the core;
Then pity the sex for this cause,
Man taught 'em deceit long before.
Poor youth! cease to languish, and idly complain,
For grief brings the vigour of life to the wane,
And, had'st thou thy wish, all thy prize might be pain.
| Young Arthur | |