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Poems by James Hyslop

... With a Sketch of his Life, and Notes on his Poems, By the Rev. Peter Mearns

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 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 XVII. 
 XVIII. 
 XIX. 
 XX. 
 XXI. 
 XXII. 
 XXIII. 
 XXIV. 
 XXV. 
 XXVI. 
 XXVII. 
 XXVIII. 
 XXIX. 
 XXX. 
 XXXI. 
 XXXII. 
 XXXIII. 
 XXXIV. 
 XXXV. 
 XXXVI. 
 XXXVII. 
 XXXVIII. 
 XXXIX. 
 XL. 
 XLI. 
 XLII. 
 XLIII. 
 XLIV. 
 XLV. 
 XLVI. 
 XLVII. 
 XLVIII. 
 XLIX. 
 L. 
 LI. 
 LII. 
 LIII. 
 LIV. 
LIV. To Anna.
 LV. 
 LVI. 
 LVII. 
 LVIII. 
 LIX. 
 LX. 
 LXI. 
 LXII. 
 LXIII. 
 LXIV. 
 LXV. 
 LXVI. 
 LXVII. 
 LXVIII. 
 LXIX. 
 LXX. 
 LXXI. 
 LXXII. 
 LXXIII. 
 LXXIV. 
 LXXV. 
 LXXVI. 
 LXXVII. 
 LXXVIII. 
 LXXIX. 
 LXXX. 
 LXXXI. 
 LXXXII. 


201

LIV.
To Anna.

I've often thought that never two
In love's soft chain were link'd together,
Sae sweetly fond as I and you
To kiss and fondle ane anither.
There is a witchery in thine eyes,
A knowing roguery in thy face,
That makes thy breast a paradise—
A little heaven of thy embrace.
Those locks o' gleaming brown, that curl
Sae wantonly adown thy breast,
Bespeak you for an am'rous girl,
That dearly loves to be carest.
The tempting freckles, sunny specks,
Sae thickly o'er your white skin sown
From love's warm furnace, are the marks
With which he stamp'd you for his own.
Those cunning eyes, that live by rule
Beneath the world's observing glance,
Always contrive to play the fool,
Whenever they can get a chance.
Old peevish maids condemn with spite
Thy levity and loveliness;
Their withering lips with envy bite
To think how fond is thy caress.
But never mind—e'en let them fret,
Perhaps 'twill save them from despair;
Come to thy poet's breast, and let
Him fondly kiss thy soft brown hair.