JEANIE.
SONG XXI.
1
Were my fair Jean yon ruddy rose,
Disclosing on its fragrant tree,
Its golden lips I would unseal,
Transform'd into a little bee;
There murmuring blythe in balmy room,
I'd richly feast midst honey bloom.
2
Or were I but yon little bird,
Sweet chaunting on the scented thorn,
I'd warble round her window fair,
And wake her at the smile of morn;
Then flutter o'er her bosom bare,
And perch amid her raven hair.
3
Or could I be the sun's first beam,
Now breaking o'er the upland fell,
A ray I'd through her casement pour,
And on her snowy bosom dwell;
Her rosie lips and forehead kiss,
And wake her with my warming bliss.
