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SONG

Y silks and fine array,

MY

My smiles and languished air,

By love are driven away;

And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave :

Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heaven

When springing buds unfold;
O why to him was't given,

Whose heart is wintry cold?
His breast is love's all-worshipped tomb,
Where all love's pilgrims come.

Bring me an axe and spade,

Bring me a winding-sheet; When I my grave have made,

Let winds and tempests beat : Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay.

True love doth pass away !

SONG

WILLIAM BLAKE

LOVE and harmony combine,

And around our souls entwine,

While thy branches mix with mine,
And our roots together join.

Joys upon our branches sit,

Chirping loud and singing sweet;
Like gentle streams beneath our feet,
Innocence and virtue meet.

Thou the golden fruit dost bear,
I am clad in flowers fair;

Thy sweet boughs perfume the air,
And the turtle buildeth there,

There she sits and feeds her young,
Sweet I hear her mournful song;
And thy lovely leaves among
There is Love; I hear his tongue.

There his charming nest doth lay,
There he sleeps the night away;
There he sports along the day,
And doth among our branches play.

WILLIAM BLAKE

IN A MYRTLE SHADE

‘O a lovely myrtle bound,

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Blossoms showering all around,

O how weak and weary I
Underneath my myrtle lie!

Why should I be bound to thee,
O my lovely myrtle-tree?
Love, free love, cannot be bound
To any tree that grows on ground.

WILLIAM BLAKE

LOVE'S SECRET

NEVER seek to tell thy love,

Love that never told can be ;

For the gentle wind does move
Silently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart,
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears.
Ah! she did depart!

Soon after she was gone from me,

A traveller came by,

Silently, invisibly :

He took her with a sigh.

WILLIAM BLAKE

YE

BONNIE DOON

E flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye blume sae fair!

How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae fu' o' care!

Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird,

That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause luve was true.

Thou❜lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird,

That sings beside thy mate;

For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I fov'd by bonnie Doon,

To see the woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its luve, And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Frae off its thorny tree;

And my fause luver staw the rose,

But left the thorn wi' me.

ROBERT BURNS

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A RED, RED ROSE

MY Luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;

my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I :

And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry :

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

ROBERT BURNS

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MARY MORISON

MARY, at thy window be,

It is the wished, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see
That make the miser's treasure poor :
How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen, when to the trembling string,
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing—

I sat, but neither heard nor saw :
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said, amang them a',
"Ye are na Mary Morison ".

O Mary, canst thou wreck his
peace
Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
Or canst thou break that heart of his

Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

ROBERT BURNS

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO

OHN ANDERSON, my jo, John,

JO

When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither:

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