Роберт Андерсон (Robert Anderson)

To Mary

Exil'd frae thee, and ilka mead,
Where first I tun'd the rustic reed,
Still fancy's aid I dare to crave;
Still bend to love a willing slave.
While others court life's gaudy crew,
To empty grandeur fain to bow,
The town nae mair can pleasure gie;
My thoughts are center'd a' in thee.

How monie a Spring hath deck'd the vales,
And pour'd the fragrance on the gales,
Sin' first by Sol's departin' beam,
Midst Eden's bow'rs, love was our theme:
Ah! hours o' bliss, to mem'ry dear!
Ye prompt reflection's painfu' tear:
Dear scenes! around ye brighter bloom,
And will, till summon'd to the tomb!

When Simmer wi' her smilin' train,
Gars a' rejoice o'er hill and plain,
I see thy face in ilka flow'r,
And hear thy voice in monie a bow'r.
When Boreas wi' a thousand storms
The face o' nature quick deforms,
I tune my pipe to love and thee,
Till aft a tear--drap swells my ee.

If musin' thro' the fields I stray,
Thou'rt ay my theme the lee--lang day;
And when the stars o' night appear,
The thoughts o' thee my bosom cheer:
In dreams I see thy matchless face,
Enraptur'd wi' ilk magic grace;
Thus day or night, thy charms impart
The dearest bliss that warms my heart.

Thy love is a' I ask on earth;
It gies to ilka pleasure birth;
Life's ills it maks me patient bear,
Quite reckless o' the thorn o' care.
Hope, wha sae aft fond man beguiles,
Yet whispers wi' bewitchin' smiles,
Tho' friendships fade, in life's decline,
Long--wish'd--for joys may soon be mine! 

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