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Songs

Chiefly in the Rural Language of Scotland. By Allan Cunningham
  
  

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 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
AWAKE MY LOVE.
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 XVII. 
 XVIII. 
 XIX. 
 XX. 
 XXI. 
 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. 

AWAKE MY LOVE.

SONG X.

1

Awake my love, ere morning's ray
Throws off night's weed of pilgrim gray;
Erewhile the hare denn'd close from view,
Licks from her fleece the clover dew;
Or wild swan claps her snowy wings,
By hunter's rous'd, at secret springs;

19

Or birds upon the boughs awake
In song, till all the forests shake.”

2

She waken'd, and unclos'd her eye,
Like star new woke in frozen sky;
Dark curling locks her cheeks enclose,
Like fleece of thyme grown round a rose;
She comb'd the comely clusters down,
She lac'd her jupes, and clasp'd her shoon;
And from the cot, by Preston-burn,
Issued the rival light of morn.

3

Forth as we walk'd love-list'ning round,
Harmonious waken'd rural sound;
The speckled lark, abreast by mate,
Career'd in song for heaven's gate:
From stripling tree replied the thrush,
The goldspink chirm'd from dewy bush;
And plover, fed on heather crop,
Called from the misty mountain top.

4

“Sweet, said the maiden, while the day
Brightens to gold from silver gray,
To witness wood, and hedge, and brake,
Instinct with soul of song awake;
The smoke ascend in slender wreath,
From cottages embower'd beneath;
Where the blythe mower hastes along,
With glistering scythe and rural song.”

20

5

My lovely Jean, and dost thou mark,
The moral note of mounting lark;
Tak'st thou from Nature's counsellor tongue,
The warning precept of her song?
Each bird that shakes the dewy grove,
Warms his wild note with nuptial love;
Brute, bird, and bee, with gracious sound,
Whisper the sweets of wedlock round,

6

Red blush'd she as a fresh sprung flower,
Upblossom'd through the morning show'r;
Untied her snood of sea-green fold,
Bedropp'd with grass-hoppers of gold:
Her rosie palm she laid in mine,
And blush'd, “Sweet laddie I am thine;”
In native loveliness she shone,
A feast fit for the gods alone.