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O were I sure my dear to view,
I'd climb the pine-tree’s topmost bough,
Almost in air that quivering plays.
And round and round for ever gaze.
My Orra Moor, where art thou laid?
What wood contains my sleeping maid?
Up by the roots enrag'd I’ll tear.
The trees that hide my promis’d fair.
Oh! could I ride on clouds and skies,
Or on the raven's pinions rise;
Ye storks, ye swans, a moment stay,
And waft a lover on his way.
My bliss, too long, my bride denies,
Apace the wasting summer flies;
Or yet the wintry blasts l fear,
Nor storms, or nights shall keep me here.
What may for strength of steel compare?
Oh ! Love has fetters stronger far;
By bolts of steel are limbs confin’d.
But cruel love enchains the mind.
No longer then perplex my breast,
When thoughts torment, the first are blest,
'Tis mad to go, 'tis death to stay,
Away to Orra haste away.
GLASGOW,
Printed by J & M. ROBERTSON, Saltmarket, 1799.
