Tell me, thou soul.
[James Thomson, author of "The Seasons."]
Tell me, thou soul of her I love,
Ah! tell me whither art thou fled;
To what delightful world above,
Appointed for the happy dead?
Or dost thou free at random roam,
And sometimes share thy lover's woe;
Where, void of thee, his cheerless home
Can now, alas! no comfort know?
Oh! if thou hover'st round my walk,
While under every well known tree,
I to thy fancy'd shadow talk,
And every tear is full of thee;
Should then the weary eye of grief,
Beside some sympathetic stream,
In slumber find a short relief,
Oh visit thou my soothing dream.
O the weary siller.
O the weary siller!
O the weary siller!
Wha wad venture till her,
That hadna got the siller?
She's stately, proud, and shy,
Disdains to speak to onie,
But yet her distant eye
Wad glitter at the money.
O the weary silkr, &c.
You'd think her heart was cold,
And never gave a flutter,
But touch it with the gold,
'T wad melt like summer butter!
O the weary siller, &c.
Ga'e tak' her for a wife,
She'll wink at onie failing,
And cuddle you through life,
Sae lang's you keep your mailing.
O the weary siller, &c.
But should your purse grow light,
And fortune seek to shun ye,
It's then you'll see her right,
And the Lord ha'e mercy on ye!
O the weary siller!
O the weary siller!
Wha wad venture till her,
That hadna got the siller?
The Trysting Tree.
[Alex. Laing.—Here printed for the first time. Air, "The bonniest lass in a' the warld."]
The evening sun has closed the day,
An' silence sleeps on hill an' plain;
The yellow moon is on her way
Wi' a' her glinting starry train.
The moment dear to love an' me—
The happy moment now is near,
When by our lonely trysting tree,
I'll meet my lov'd Eliza dear.
Where mild the vernal mornings rise,
An' meek the summer e'enings fa';
Where soft the breeze of autumn sighs,
An' light the blasts o' winter blaw;
Where Keithock winds her wavy stream,
By birken tree an' blooming thorn;
Of love an' bliss we fondly dream,
Till often dawns the early morn.
Her voice like warbled music sweet,
Would lead the minstrels of the grove;
Her form, where a' the graces meet,
Would melt the caldest heart to love;
Her wistfu' look, an' winning smile,
So sweetly fain, so chastely gay,
Would sorrow's mirkest hour beguile,
And chase the deepest grief away.
My lov'd Eliza! wert thou mine!
My ain endear'd—endearing wife,
How blest! around thy heart to twine,
In a' the changing scenes of life:
Though beauty, fancy, rapture, flies
When age his chilling touch imparts;
Yet time, while breaking other ties,
Will closer bind our hands and hearts.
