Poem by Thomas Blacklock

A Pastoral Song

Sandy the gay, the blooming swain,
Had lang frae love been free;
Lang made ilk heart that fill'd the plain,
Dance quick with harmless glee.

As blythsom lambs that scour the green,
His mind was unconstrain'd;
Nae face could ever fix his een,
Nae sang his ear detain'd.

Ah! luckless youth, a short-liv'd joy
Thy cruel fates decree:
Fell tods shall on thy lambkins prey,
And love, mair fell, on thee.

'Twas e'er the sun exhal'd the dew,
Ae morn of chearful May,
Furth Girzy walk'd, the flow'rs to view,
A flow'r mair sweet than they.

Like sun-beams sheen her waving locks,
Her een like stars were bright,
The rose lent blushes to her cheek,
The lilly purest white.

Jimp was her waist, like some tall pine,
That keeps the woods in aw;
Her limbs like iv'ry columns turn'd,
Her breasts like hills of snaw.

Her robe around her loosely thrown,
Gave to the shepherd's een,
What fearless innocence would show;
The rest was all unseen.

He fix'd his look, he sigh'd, he quak'd,
His colour went and came;
Dark grew his een, his ears resound,
His breast was all on flame.

Nae mair yon glen repeats his sang,
He jokes and smiles nae mair;
Unpletted now his cravat hung,
Undrest his chesnut hair.

To him, how lang the shortest night,
How dark the brightest day;
Till, with the slow consuming flame,
His life was worn away.

Far far frae shepherds, and their flocks,
Opprest with care, he lean'd;
And in a mirky beachen shade,
To hills and dales thus plean'd:

At length, my way-ward heart, return,
Too far, alas! astray;
Say, whence you caught that bitter smart,
Which works me such decay.

Ay me! 'twas Love, 'twas Girzy's charms,
That first began my woes;
Could he, sae saft, or she sae fair,
Prove such relentless foes?

Fierce winter nips the sweetest flow'r;
Keen lightning rives the tree,
Bleak mildew taints the fairest crop,
And love has blasted me.

Sagacious hounds the foxes chace,
The tender lamb-kins they;
Lambs follow closs their mother ewes,
And ewes the blooms of May.

Sith a' that live, with a' their might,
Some dear delight pursue;
Cease, ruthless maid, to scorn the heart
That only pants for you.

Alas! for griefs to her unken'd,
What pity can I gain?
And, should she ken, yet love refuse,
Could that redress my pain?

Come, death, my wan, my frozen bride,
Ah! close those wearied eyes;
But death the happy still pursues,
Still from the wretched flies.

Could wealth avail, what wealth is mine,
Her high-born mind to bend,
Hers are those wide delightful plains,
And hers the flocks I tend.

What though, whene'er I tun'd my pipe,
Glad fairies heard the sound,
And, clad in freshest April green,
Aft tript the circle round.

Break, landward clown, thy dinsome reed,
And brag thy skill nae mair:
Can aught that gies na Girzy joy,
Be worth thy lightest care?

Adieu, ye harmless, sportive flocks,
Anes a' my joy and care:
Adieu, my faithful dog, who aft
The pleasing toil did share.

Adieu, ye plains and light, anes sweet,
Now painful to my view:
Adieu to life, and thou, mair dear,
Who caus'd my death, adieu.

1. Song. Inscribed to a Friend. In imitation of Shenstone
2. An Hymn to Divine Love. In Imitation of Spenser
3. A Letter from Thomas Blacklock to the Author, Respecting Burns
4. An Epitaph, on a Favourite Lap-Dog
5. On Punch

Henry White A Pastoral Song ("Come, Anna! come, the morning dawns")

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