George 333

CCXXXVIII.

TO HIS MISTRESS.

IF doughty deeds my lady please
Right soon I'll mount my steed;
And strong his arm, and fast his seat
That bears frae me the meed.
I'll wear thy colours in my cap,

Thy picture at my heart;

And he that bends not to thine eye

Shall rue it to his smart!

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;

O tell me how to woo thee!

For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take,
Tho' ne'er another trow me.

If gay attire delight thine eye

I'll dight me in array ;

I'll tend thy chamber door all night,
And squire thee all the day.
If sweetest sounds can win thine ear,
These sounds I'll strive to catch;
Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysel',
That voice that nane can match.

But if fond love thy heart can gain,
I never broke a vow;

Nae maiden lays her skaith to me,
I never loved but you.

For you alone I ride the ring,

For you

I wear the blue;

For you alone I strive to sing,

O tell me how to woo!

VOL. II.

Then tell me how to woo thee, Love;

O tell me how to woo thee!

For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take,

Tho' ne'er another trow me.

CCXXXIX.

TO MARY UNWIN.

THE twentieth year is well nigh past,
Since first our sky was overcast ;

Ah would that this might be the last!
My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

I see thee daily weaker grow

'Twas my distress that brought thee low My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more;
My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,

Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
My Mary!

But well thou playedst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art

Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem

Like language uttered in a dream;

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,
My Mary!

For could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,
My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,

Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet, gently prest, press gently mine,
My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st
That now at every step thou mov'st
Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,
My Mary!

And still to love, though prest with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,

With me is to be lovely still,
My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know
How oft the sadness that I show
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last-
My Mary!-W. Cowper.

CCXL.

TO THE SAME

MARY! I want a lyre with other strings,

Such aid from Heaven as some have feign'd they

drew,

An eloquence scarce given to mortals, new

And undebased by praise of meaner things,