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 genuine Love-Letter.
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 | The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd |  |
A genuine Love-Letter.
My Mary, maiden of my meed,
Thy beauties soon will be my dead;
Thy hair's the sunbeam o' the morn,
Thy lip the rose without the thorn;
The arch above thine e'e sae blue,
A fairy rainbow on the dew:
O Mary, thou art all to me—
This warld holds nought sae sweet as thee!
Thy beauties soon will be my dead;
Thy hair's the sunbeam o' the morn,
Thy lip the rose without the thorn;
The arch above thine e'e sae blue,
A fairy rainbow on the dew:
O Mary, thou art all to me—
This warld holds nought sae sweet as thee!
Thy foot so light, thy step so fleet,
Like the young roe's as lithe and meet,
That scarcely brushes o'er the fell,
The dew-drap frae the heather-bell.
Thy voice upon the breezes light,
In gloaming's cradle-hymn of night,
Sounds like the lute's soft melody,
Or seraph's melting strain, to me.
Like the young roe's as lithe and meet,
That scarcely brushes o'er the fell,
The dew-drap frae the heather-bell.
Thy voice upon the breezes light,
In gloaming's cradle-hymn of night,
Sounds like the lute's soft melody,
Or seraph's melting strain, to me.
Then, since I may not, dare not tell,
Whom I so fondly love, and well,
I send you this, my darling maid,
To say what I would oft have said;
In hopes, that when you have it read,
You'll hide it in a snowy bed—
A bed so lovely and so meek,
It would not stain a cherub's cheek.
Whom I so fondly love, and well,
I send you this, my darling maid,
To say what I would oft have said;
In hopes, that when you have it read,
You'll hide it in a snowy bed—
A bed so lovely and so meek,
It would not stain a cherub's cheek.
Then meet me in our trysting dell,
And not one word I'll bid you tell;
The liquid eye the tale will say,
The melting kiss will all betray—
Ay, they will tell, my Mary dear,
What you dare neither say nor hear;
And sweeter to my heart they'll prove,
Than all the winning tales of love!
And not one word I'll bid you tell;
The liquid eye the tale will say,
The melting kiss will all betray—
Ay, they will tell, my Mary dear,
What you dare neither say nor hear;
And sweeter to my heart they'll prove,
Than all the winning tales of love!
| The Works of The Ettrick Shepherd | |