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; Whose heart is wintry cold? 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, Joys upon our branches sit, Chirping loud and singing sweet; Thou the golden fruit dost bear, Thy sweet boughs perfume the air, There she sits and feeds her young, There his charming nest doth lay, WILLIAM BLAKE IN A MYRTLE SHADE ‘O a lovely myrtle bound, Blossoms showering all around, O how weak and weary I Why should I be bound to thee, WILLIAM BLAKE LOVE'S SECRET NEVER seek to tell thy love, Love that never told can be ; For the gentle wind does move I told my love, I told my love, 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 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, 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, And my fause luver staw the rose, But left the thorn wi' me. ROBERT BURNS A RED, RED ROSE MY Luve's like a red, red rose, my Luve's like the melodie As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And fare thee weel, my only Luve! ROBERT BURNS MARY MORISON MARY, at thy window be, It is the wished, the trysted hour! Yestreen, when to the trembling string, I sat, but neither heard nor saw : O Mary, canst thou wreck his Whase only faut is loving thee? 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, |