Part 19

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie; For guileless simplicity marks her its ain; And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flower o' Dunblane.

Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening! Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie! The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.

Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor, If wanting sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dunblane.

Robert Tannahill [1774-1810]

MARGARET AND DORA

Margaret's beauteous - Grecian arts Ne'er drew form completer, Yet why, in my hearts of hearts, Hold I Dora's sweeter?

Dora's eyes of heavenly blue Pass all painting's reach, Ringdoves' notes are discord to The music of her speech.

Artists! Margaret's smile receive, And on canvas show it; But for perfect worship leave Dora to her poet.

Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]

DAGONET'S CANZONET

A queen lived in the South; And music was her mouth, And sunshine was her hair, By day, and all the night The drowsy embers there Remembered still the light; My soul, was she not fair!

But for her eyes - they made An iron man afraid; Like sky-blue pools they were, Watching the sky that knew Itself transmuted there Light blue, or deeper blue; My soul, was she not fair!

The lifting of her hands Made laughter in the lands Where the sun is, in the South: But my soul learnt sorrow there In the secrets of her mouth, Her eyes, her hands, her hair: O soul, was she not fair!

Ernest Rhys [1859-

STANZAS FOR MUSIC

There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lulled winds seem dreaming.

And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep, Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

"FLOWERS I WOULD BRING"

Flowers I would bring if flowers could make thee fairer, And music, if the Muse were dear to thee; (For loving these would make thee love the bearer) But sweetest songs forget their melody, And loveliest flowers would but conceal the wearer: - A rose I marked, and might have plucked; but she Blushed as she bent, imploring me to spare her, Nor spoil her beauty by such rivalry. Alas! and with what gifts shall I pursue thee, What offerings bring, what treasures lay before thee; When earth with all her floral train doth woo thee, And all old poets and old songs adore thee; And love to thee is naught; from passionate mood Secured by joy's complacent plenitude!

Aubrey Thomas de Vere [1814-1902]

"IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND"

It is not Beauty I demand, A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair:

Tell me not of your starry eyes, Your lips that seem on roses fed, Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed: -

A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, A breath that softer music speaks Than summer winds a-wooing flowers, -

These are but gauds: nay, what are lips? Coral beneath the ocean-stream, Whose brink when your adventurer sips Full oft he perisheth on them.

And what are cheeks but ensigns oft That wave hot youth to fields of blood? Did Helen's breast, though ne'er so soft, Do Greece or Ilium any good?