Sprig of shilela, &c./Tweed-side

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TWEED-SIDE.

WHAT beauties doth Flora disclose.
How sweet are her smiles upon
Tweed;
Yet Mary’s still sweeter than those,
Both nature and fancy exceed.

No daisy nor sweet blushing rose,
Not all the gay flowers in the field;
Not Tweed gliding gently thro’ those,
Such beauty and pleasure does yield.

The warblers are heard in the grove,
The linnet, the lark, and the thrush,
The black bird and sweet cooing dove,
With music enchant ev’ry bush.

Come let us go forth to the mead,
Let’s see the Primroses spring;
We’ll lodge in a village on Tweed,
And love while the feather’d folk sing.
How does my love pass the long day,
Does Mary net tend a few sheep,
Do they never carelessly stray,
While happily she lies asleep.

Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest,
Kind nature indulging my bliss,
To releave the soft pains of my breast.
I’d steal an ambrosial kiss.

'Tis she doth the Virgins excell’
No beauty with her may compare,
Love's graces aid round her doth dwell,
She’s fairest where thousands are fair.

Say, charmer, where doth thy flock stray,
O tell me at Noon where they feed;
Shall I seek them on sweet winding Tay,
Or the pleasanter bank of the Tweed?