My Peggy is a young thing,
And I'm na very auld;

Yet weel I like to meet her at
The wauking o' the fauld.

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly
Whene'er we meet alane,

I wish nae mair to lay my care
I wish nae mair o' a' that's rare.
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
To a' the lave I'm cauld;
But she gars o' my spirits glow
At waukin o' the fauld.

By a' the rest - that she sings best.
My Peggy sings sae saftly,

And in her sangs are tald

Wi' innocence the wale o' sense,
At wauking o' the fauld.

A. Ramsay

To Her I Love

ELL me, thou soul of her I love,

TELL

Ah! tell me, whither art thou fled;
To what delightful world above,
Appointed for the happy dead?

Or dost thou, free, at pleasure, roam,
And sometimes share thy lover's woe;
Where, void of thee, his cheerless home
alas! no comfort know?

Can now,

O! if thou hoverest round my walk,
While, under every well-known tree,
I to thy fancied shadow talk,

And every tear is full of thee:

Should then the weary eye of grief,
Beside some sympathetic stream,
In slumber find a short relief,
Oh, visit thou my soothing dream!

7. Thomson

17. The Young Laird and Edinburgh Katie

Now

JOW wat ye wha I met yestreen
Coming down the street, my jo?

My mistress, in her tartan screen,
Fu' bonnie, braw, and sweet, my jo.
'My dear,' quoth I, thanks to the night
That never wished a lover ill;
Since ye're out o' your mither's sight,
Let's tak' a walk up to the hill.

18.

And leave the dinsome town a while?
The blossom's sprouting frae the tree,
And a' the simmer's gaen to smile.
The mavis, nightingale, and lark,

The bleating lambs and whistling hind,
In ilka dale, green, shaw, and park,
Will nourish health and glad yeʼr mind.
'Soon as the clear guidman o' day

Does bend his morning draught o' dew,
We'll gae to some burn side and play,
And gather flowers to busk your brow.
We'll pu' the daisies on the green,
The lucken-gowans frae the bog;
Between hands now and then we'll lean,
And sport upon the velvet fog.

'There's up into a pleasant glen,

A wee piece frae my father's tower,
A canny, saft, and flowery den,

Which circling birks ha'e formed a bower;
Whene'er the sun grows high and warm,

We'll to the cauler shade remove;

There will I lock thee in my arm,
And love and kiss, and kiss and love.'

I

Flavia

A. Ramsay

TOLD my nymph, I told her true,

My fields were small, my flocks were few;
While faltering accents spoke my fear,
That Flavia might not prove sincere.

19.

Of crops destroy'd by vernal cold,

And vagrant sheep that left

my fold: Of these she heard, yet bore to hear; And is not Flavia then sincere ?

How, chang'd by Fortune's fickle wind,
The friends I loved became unkind;
She heard and shed a generous tear;
And is not Flavia then sincere?

How, if she deign my love to bless,
My Flavia must not hope for dress:
This, too, she heard, and smiled to hear;
And Flavia, sure, must be sincere.

Go, shear your flocks, ye jovial swains!
Go reap the plenty of your plains;
Despoil'd of all which you revere,
Flavia's love sincere.

I know my

Fair Hebe

W. Shenstone

FAIR Hebe I left, with a cautious design

Το escape from her charms, and to drown them in wine,

I tried it; but found, when I came to depart,

The wine in my head, and still love in my heart.

I repaired to my Reason, intreated her aid;

Who paused on my case, and each circumstance weighed, Then gravely pronounced, in return to my prayer,

'That Hebe was fairest of all that was fair!'

'That's a truth,' replied I, 'I've no need to be taught; I came for your counsel to find out a fault.'

If that's all,' quoth Reason, 'return as you came; To find fault with Hebe, would forfeit my name.'

What hopes then, alas! of relief from my pain;
While, like lightning, she darts through each throbbing vein.
My Senses surprised, in her favour took arms;
And Reason confirms me a slave to her charms.

20.

YES,

J. West, Earl De la Warr

The Je Ne Sais Quoi

VES, I'm in love, I feel it now,
And Celia has undone me;

And yet I swear I can't tell how
The pleasing pain stole on me.

'Tis not her face which love creates,
For there no graces revel;

'Tis not her shape, for there the fates
Have rather been uncivil.

'Tis not her air, for sure in that

There's nothing more than common;
And all her sense is only chat,

Like any other woman.

Her voice, her touch, might give th' alarm;
'Twas both, perhaps, or neither;

In short, 'twas that provoking charm.

Of Celia altogether.

W. Whitehead