O saft is the blink o’ thine e’e.
[From "The Gaberlunzie's Wallet."]
O saft is the blink o' thine e'e, lassie,
Saft is the blink o' thine e'e;
An' a bonnie wee sun glimmers on its blue orb
As kindly it glints upon me.
The ringlets that twine round thy brow, lassie,
Are gowden as gowden may be;
Like the wee curly cluds that play round the sun
When he's just gaun to drap in the sea.
Thou hast a bonnie wee mou', lassie,
As sweet as a body may pree;
An' fondly I'll pree that wee hinny mou',
E'en though thou should'st frown upon me.
Thou hast a lily white hand, lassie,
As fair as a body may see;
An' saft is the touch o' that wee genty hand,
At eve when thou partest wi' me.
Thy thoughts are sae haly and pure, lassie,
Thy heart is sae kind and sae free;
That the bright sun o' heaven is nae pleased wi' himsel',
Till he glasses himsel' in thine e'e.
O, thou art a' thing to me, lassie,
O thou art a' thing to me;
What care I although fortune should frown,
Gin I gain the blythe blink o' thine e'e.
My Love.
[Alex. Hume.— Air, "My love is like a rose."]
My love is like my ain countrie,
That to my heart is dear;
My love is like the holly tree,
That's green through a' the year.
Her smile is like the glowing ray
That fa's frae yonder sun;
An', sunlike, blesses a' the day,
Yet kens nae gude she's done.
Her lips ha'e named the bridal time,
Her lips ha'e sealed the vow;
Like Nature's laws in every clime,
We'll aye be true as now.
Like Nature, love the fairer grows
The mair we ken its law:
Like air, it through the warld flows,
Sweet harmony to a'.
O fly, ye lazy listless hours,
An' bring that happy day,
When we'll in wedlock's sweetest bow'rs
In love kiss life away.
We'll live like sleepers in a dream,
Where wishes paint the scene;
An' care shall melt by pleasure's beam,
As snow melts on the green.
I winna be weel.
[The following capital song is by a working blacksmith in Glasgow, of the name of Thomas Dodd, and is here printed for the first time. We have seldom seen a more ludicrous yet faithful picture of an aged wooer than it presents.—Tune, "The brisk young lad."]
I winna be weel, for I canna be weel,—
The laird an' his siller may gang in a creel,
Tho' his bauld pow had the crown on't, atweel,
I'd scorn him wi' his a'.
My mother says a laird's a catch,
My father fain wad mak' a match,
But I'll no be a gaudy wretch,
To pine my life an a'.
Was he guid as a sannt an' wise as a sage,
His wisdom or worth for my heart is nae pledge,
I wish—as a lassie should wish at my age—
Ane young, whate'er may fa'.
My truely! it's an unco sight
To see an auld blin' donert wight,
Wha scarcely kens the day frae night,
Begin a lang fraca!
Sighing—but mair for the want o' his breath
Than love at his heart, though maybe baith—
Smiling on me, as if girning guid faith,
He says, "O lass, ye're braw!"
