The Rose in Yarrow.
[From "The British Songster," Glasgow, 1786.—Air, "Mary Scott."]
'Twas summer, and the day was fair,
Resolved awhile to fy from care,
Beguiling thought, forgetting sorrow,
I wandered o'er the braes of Yarrow.
Till then despising beauty's power,
I kept my heart my own secure;
But Cupid's dart did then work sorrow,
And Mary's charms on braes of Yarrow.
Will cruel love no bribe receive?
No ransom take for Mary's slave?
Her frowns of rest and hope deprive me,
Her lovely smiles like light revive me.
No bondage may with mine compare,
Since first I saw this charming fair;
This beauteous flow'r, this rose of Yarrow,
In nature's gardens has no marrow.
Had I of heaven but one request,
I'd ask to lie on Mary's breast;
There would I live or die with pleasure,
Nor spare this world one moment's leisure;
Despising kings, and all that's great,
I'd smile at courts, and courtiers' fate;
My joy complete on such a marrow,
I'd dwell with her, and live on Yarrow.
But though such bliss I ne'er should gain,
Contented still I wear my chain,
In hopes my faithful heart may move her,
For leaving life I'll always love her.
What doubts distract a lover's mind!
That breast, all softness, must prove kind;
And she shall yet become my marrow,
The lovely beauteous rose of Yarrow.