English

Fair rebel to thyself and Time,
Who laugh'st at all my tears,
When thou hast lost thy youthful prime,
And age his trophy rears,

Weighing thy inconsiderate pride,
Thou shalt in vain accuse it:
" Why beauty am I now denied,
Or knew not then to use it? "

Then shall I wish, ungentle Fair,
Thou in like flames may'st burn!
Venus, if just, will hear my prayer,
And I shall laugh my turn.

Fair, order'd lights (whose motion without noise)
Resembles those true Joys
Whose spring is on that hil where you do grow
And we here tast sometimes below,)

With what exact obedience do you move
Now beneath, and now above,
And in your vast progressions overlook
The darkest night, and closest nook!

Some nights I see you in the gladsome East,
Some other neer the West,
And when I cannot see, yet do you shine
And beat about your endles line.

Silence, and light, and watchfulnes with you

Fair Musidora starry-eyed,
With blue-black tresses floating wide,
And cheeks like tinted shells beside, —

Was seated in her tower one night,
Above the hills whose purple light
Merged in the moonlight's golden-white.

Her garments girdle-clasped, flowed round
By zephyrs stirred with leafy sound,
An amethyst her forehead crowned.

Afar surged the eternal sea,
Nigh, doves cooed in the bloss'ming tree,
And shadows crossed the gloomy lea.

But neither billows crested white,

Fair Mary sat at her father's castle gate,
A-watching the ships coming in;
Her father he came and sat by her side,
For he saw she looked pale and thin--
For he saw she looked pale and thin.

"Are you sick? Are you sick, dear Mary?" he said,
"Are you sick? Are you sick?" quoth he,
"Or are you in love with a jolly sailor lad,
Who sails the distant seas?"

"I am not sick, dear father," she says,
"I am not sick," quoth she,
"But I'm in love with a jolly sailor lad,
John Barbour is his name."

Fair Margret was a young ladye
An' come of high degree;
Fair Margret was a young ladye
An' proud as proud cou'd be.

Fair Margret was a rich ladye,
The king's cousin was she;
Fair Margret was a rich ladye
An' vain as vain cou'd be.

She war'd her wealth on the gay cleedin'
That comes frae 'yont the sea;
She spent her time frae morning till night
Adorning her fair bodye.

Ae night she sate in her stately ha'
Kaimin' her yellow hair,
When in there cum like a gentle knight

Fair lovely Maid, or if that Title be
Too weak, too Feminine for Nobler thee,
Permit a Name that more Approaches Truth:
And let me call thee, Lovely Charming Youth.
This last will justifie my soft complaint,
While that may serve to lessen my constraint;
And without Blushes I the Youth persue,
When so much beauteous Woman is in view,
Against thy Charms we struggle but in vain
With thy deluding Form thou giv'st us pain,
While the bright Nymph betrays us to the Swain.
In pity to our Sex sure thou wer't sent,

Fair lady Isabel sits in her bower sewing,
Aye as the gowans grow gay
There she heard an elf-knight blawing his horn.
The first morning in May.

"If I had yon horn that I hear blawing,
And yon elf-knight to sleep in my bosom.'

This maiden had scarcely these words spoken,
Till in at her window the elf-knight has luppen.

"It's a very strange matter, fair maiden,' said he,
"I canna blaw my horn but ye call on me.

"But will ye go to yon greenwood side?
If ye canna gang, I will cause you to ride.'

A.
Fair Isabel sat in her bower door
Sewin' her silken seam,
When she heard a note in Elwin's wood
And she wished she there had been.

She loot the seam fa' to her side,
The needle to her tae,
And she is aff to Elwin's wood
As fast as she can gae.

But she hadna pu'd a nut, a nut,
Nor broken a branch but ane,
When by there cam' a young hind chiel,
Said, Lady, lat alane.

Oh, why pu' ye the nut, the nut,
Or why break ye the tree?
For I'm the guardian o' the wood
And ye maun lat it be.

Fair is the world, now autumn's wearing,
And the sluggard sun lies long abed;
Sweet are the days, now winter's nearing,
And all winds feign that the wind is dead.

Dumb is the hedge where the crabs hang yellow,
Bright as the blossoms of the spring;
Dumb is the close where the pears grow mellow,
And none but the dauntless redbreasts sing.

Fair was the spring, but amidst his greening
Grey were the days of the hidden sun;
Fair was the summer, but overweening,
So soon his o'er-sweet days were done.

Fair is the rose, yet fades with heat or cold.
Sweet are the violets, yet soon grow old.
The lily 's white, yet in one day 'tis done.
White is the snow, yet melts against the sun.
So white, so sweet was my fair mistress' face,
Yet altered quite in one short hoür's space.
So short-lived beauty a vain gloss doth borrow,
Breathing delight to-day, but none to-morrow.