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Ye powers ! was Domon then so bleft
Ye Gods! was Strephor's picture bleft

15 Ye gales that gently wave the sea

18 Ye watchful guardians of the fair

41 Ye shepherds and nymphs that adorn the gay plain 47 Young Philander wood me lang

189 Ye blytheft lads and laffes gay

193 Young Corydon and Phillis

258 Ye beaux of pleasure

274 Yes I could love if I cou'd find

287 You may cease to complain

288 Ye virgin powers, defend my heart

295 You that love mirth, attend to my song 299 Yes, all the world will sure agree

301 Ye highlands and ye lawlands Young Roger came tapping

370 Young Roger of the mill

379 Young virgins love pleasure

400 You meaner beauties of the night. Ye nymphs and silvan gods Youth's the season made for joys Ye powers that o'er mankind preside


403 411 420 431


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OW fweetly smells the fimmer green!

Sweet taste the peach and cherry ;
Painting and order please our een,

And claret makes us merry :
But finest colours, fruits and flowers,

And wine, tho' I be thirsty,
Loss a their charms and weaker powers,

Compar'd with those of Christy.
When wand'ring o'er the flow'ry park,

No nat'ral beauty wanting,
How lightsome is't to hear the lark,

And birds in confort chanting?
But if my Christy tunes her voice,

I'm rapt in admiration ;
My thoughts with extasies rejoice,

And drap the hale creation.

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Whene'er she smiles a kindly glance,

I take the happy omen,
And aften mint to make advance,

Hoping she'll prove a woman :
But dubious of my ain desert,

My sentiments I smother ; With secret fighs I vex my heart,

For fear the love another.

Thus sang blate Edie by a burn,

His Christy did o'er-hear him ;
She doughtna let her lover mourn,

But e'er he wist drew near him.



She spake her favour with a look,

Which left nae room to doubt her ; He wisely this white minute took,

And flang his arms about her..

My Christy !--witness, bonny stream,

Sic joys frae tears arising,
I wish this may na be a dream ?

O love the maist surprising!
Time was too precious now for tauk ;

This point of a' his wishes
He wadna with set speeches bauk,

But war'd it a' on kisses.

The Bush aboon TRAQUAIR.


EAR me, ye nymphs, and every swain,

I'll tell how Peggy grieves me, Tho thus I languish, thus complain,

Alas ! she ne'er believes me.
My vows and fighs, like silent air,

Unheeded never move her ;
At the bonny bush aboon Traquair,

'Twas there I first did love her.

That day she smild, and made me glad,

No maid seem'd ever kinder;
I thought myself the luckiest lad,

So sweetly there to find her.
I try'd to sooth my am'rous flame,

In words that I thought tender ;
If more there pass’d, I'm not to blame,

I meant not to offend her.

Yet now the scornful flees the plain,

The fields we then frequented ; If e'er we meet she shews disdain,

She looks as ne'er acquainted.


The bonny blush bloom'd fair in May,

Its sweets I'll ay remember ;
But now her frowns make it decay,

It fades as in December.

Ye rural powers, who hear my strains,

Why thus should Peggy grieve me?
Oh! make her partner in my pains,

Then let her smiles relieve me.
not, my love will turn despair,
My paffion no more tender,
I'll leave the bush aboon Traquair,

To lonely wilds I'll wander.


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An O D E.
To the Tune of, Polwarth on the Green,
HOʻ beauty, like the rose,

That smiles on Polwarth Green,
In various colours shows,

As 'tis by fancy feen:
Yet all its different glories ly

United in thy face,
And vertue, like the sun on high,
Gives rays to ev'ry grace.
So charming is her air,

So smooth, so calm her mind,
That to foine angel's care

Each motion seems allign'd :
But yet fo chearful, sprightly, say,

The joyful moments fly,
As if for wings they stole the ray

She darteth from her eye.

Kind am'rous Cupids, while

With tuneful voice she sings,
Perfume her breath and smile,
And wave their balmy wings :

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But as the tender blushes rise,

Soft innocence doth warm, The soul in blissful extasies

Diffolveth in the charm.



HAT beauties does Flora disclose ?
How sweet are her smiles


Tweed? Yet Mary's still sweeter than those ;

Both nature and fancy exceed. Nor daily, nor sweet blushing rose,

Not all the gay fowers of 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 blackbird, and sweet cooing dove,

With mufick enchant ev'ry bush. Come, let us go forth to the mead,

Let us see how the primroses spring, We'll lodge in some village on Tweed,

And love while the feather'd folks sing.

How does my love pass the long day?

Does Mary not 'tend a few sheep? Do they never carelesly stray,

While happily she lyes asleep?
Tweed's murmurs should lull her to reft ;

Kind nature indulging my bliss,
To relieve the soft pains of my breaft,

I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.

'Tis she does the virgins excell,
No beauty with her may compare ;

all round her do dwell,
She's fairelt, where thousands are fair.

Love's graces


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