Wooing Song.
[William Fergusson of Edinburgh.—Here first printed.]
The spring comes back to woo the earth,
Wi' a' a lover's speed;
The wee birds woo their lovin' mates
Around our very head.
But I've nae skill in lover-craft;
For, till I met wi' you,
I never sought a maiden's love,
I never tried to woo.
I've gazed on mony a comely face,
And thought it sweet an' fair,
But wi' the face the charm would flee,
And never move me mair.
But miles away, your bonnie face
Is ever in my view,
Wi' a' its charms, half wilin' me,
Half daurin' me to woo.
At hame, a-field, you're a' my theme;
I doat my time away;
I dream o'er a' your charms by night,
And worship them by day.
But when they glad my langin' een,
As they are gladden'd now,
My courage flees like frighted bird—
I daurna mint to woo.
My head thus lying on your lap,
Your hand aneath my cheek,
Love stounds my bosom through an' through,—
But yet I canna speak.
My coward heart wi' happiness,
Wi' bliss, is brimin' fu';
But O! its fu'ness mars my tongue—
I ha'ena power to woo.
I prize your smile as husbandman
The summer's opening bloom,
And, could you frown, I dread it mair
Than he the autumn's gloom.
My life hangs on that sweet sweet lip,
On that calm, sunny brow,—
And O! my dead hangs on them baith,
Unless you let me woo.
Oh! lift me to your bosom, then,
Lay your warm cheek to mine,
And let me round that lovesome waist
My arms enraptured twine;
That I may breathe my very soul
In ae lang lovin' vow,
And a' the while, in whispers low,
You'll learn me, love, to woo!