CCXXVII.

TELL ME, MY HEART, IF THIS BE.

LOVE.

WHEN Delia on the plain appears,
Aw'd by a thousand tender fears,

I would approach, but dare not move ;—
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear
No other voice than hers can hear,
No other wit but hers approve ;-
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.
If she some other swain commend,
Though I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy I prove ;-
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.
When she is absent, I no more
Delight in all that pleas'd before-
The clearest spring, the shadiest grove ;-
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

When fond of power, of beauty vain,
Her nets she spread for every swain,
I strove to hate, but vainly strove ;—
Tell me, my heart, if this be love.

George, Lord Lyttelton.

CCXXVIII.

TULLOCHGORUM.

COME, gie's a sang! Montgomery cried,

And lay your disputes all aside,

What signifies 't for folk to chide

For what was done before them:

Let Whig and Tory all agree,
Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,
Let Whig and Tory all agree;

To drop their Whig-mig-morum ;
Let Whig and Tory all agree,
To spend the night in mirth and glee,
And cheerfu' sing, alang wi' me,
The reel o' Tullochgorum.

O, Tullochgorum's my delight,
It gars us a' in ane unite,

And ony sumph that keeps a spite,
In conscience I abhor him:
For blythe and cheery we'll be a',
Blythe and cheery, blythe and cheery,
Blythe and cheery we'll be a',

And mak' a happy quorum.

For blythe and cheery we'll be a',
As lang as we hae breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',
The reel o' Tullochgorum.

There needs na' be sae great a fraise,
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays,
I wadna gi'e our ain strathspeys
For half a hunder score o' them.
They're dowf and dowie at the best,
Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie,
They're dowf and dowie at the best
Wi' a' their variorum.

They're dowf and dowie at the best,
Their allegros and a' the rest,
They canna' please a Scottish taste,
Compar'd wi' Tullochgorum.

Let warldly worms their minds oppress Wi' fears o' want, and double cess,

And sullen sots themsells distress
Wi' keeping up decorum.
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,

Sour and sulky shall we sit

Like auld Philosophorum?
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,

Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,
Nor ever rise to shake a fit

To th' reel o' Tullochgorum

May choicest blessings ay attend
Each honest, open-hearted friend,
And calm and quiet be his end,

And a' that's good watch o'er him!

May peace and plenty be his lot,
Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,

May peace and plenty be his lot,

And dainties a great store o' them;
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Unstain'd by any vicious spot,
And may he never want a groat
That's fond o' Tullochgorum.

But for the sullen frumpish fool,
That loves to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,

And discontent devour him!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And nane say, wae's me for him!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Wi' a' the ills that come frae France,
Whae'er he be that winna dance

The reel o' Tullochgorum.

John Skinner.

CCXXIX.

TO EVENING.

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,

May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear, Like thy own solemn springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales;

O Nymph reserved,—while now the bright-hair'd

sun

Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts
With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed :

Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat
With short, shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wing;
Or where the beetle winds

His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:

Now teach me, maid composed,

To breathe some soften'd strain,

Whose numbers, stealing through thy dark'ning vale,

May not unseemly with its stillness suit ;

As musing slow, I hail

Thy genial loved return!

For when thy folding-star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours, and Elves
Who slept in buds the day,

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with

sedge

And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,

The pensive Pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car.

Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene;
Or find some ruin, 'midst its dreary dells,
Whose walls more awful nod

By thy religious gleams.

Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,
That from the mountain's side
Views wilds, and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires;
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all
The dewy fingers draw

The gradual dusky veil.

While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he

And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport

Beneath thy lingering light;

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves; Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, Affrights thy shrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes;

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, Thy gentlest influence own,

And love thy favourite name!-W. Collins.

CCXXX.

ODE WRITTEN IN 1746.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blest!