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I set my back against an oak,
I thought had been a trusty tree,
But first it bow'd and then it broke,
And so did my false love to me.
I put my hand into the bush,
Thinking the sweetest rose to find,
I prick'd my finger to the bone,
And left the sweetest rose behind.
If roses are such prickly flowers,
They're to be gather'd while they are green,
And he that loves an unkind lover,
I’m sure he strives against the stream.
When my love is dead and at her rest,
I'll think on her whom I love best,
To wrap her up in the linen strong,
And think on her when she's dead & gone.
SHE WAKES, SABINA WAKES.
SEE, see, she wakes, Sabina wakes,
and now the sun begins to rise;
Less glorious is the morn that breaks,
from his bright beams, than her fair eyes.
With light united, day they give;
but different fates ere night fulfil;
How many by his warmth will live!
how many will her coldness kill.
GLASGOW,
Printed by J. & M. Rcbertson, Saltmarket, 1802.
