WILLIAM BLAKE
Soon after she was gone from me,
A traveller came by, Silently, invisibly:
He took her with a sigh.
��o
��ROBERT BURNS
507 Mary Monson
MARY, at thy window be, It is the wish'd, the trysted hour' Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor. How blythely wad I bide the stour
A weary slave f rae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Monson!
Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', To thce my fancy took its wing,
1 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 arena Mary Morison.'
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ?
Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee ?
507 stour] dust, turmoil.
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