On Miss Jessy Lewars.

    But rarely seen since Nature's birth,
        The natives of the sky;
    Yet still one seraph's left on earth,
        For Jessy did not die.

R. B.

    Talk not to me of savages
        From Afric's burning sun,
    No savage e'er could rend my heart
        As, Jessy, thou hast done.
    But Jessy's lovely hand in mine,
        A mutual faith to plight,
    Not even to view the heavenly choir
        Would be so blest a sight.

Tune - "Here's a health to them that's awa."



I.

    Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear;
        Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear;
    Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet,
        And soft as their parting tear - Jessy!

II.

    Altho' thou maun never be mine,
        Altho' even hope is denied;
    'Tis sweeter for thee despairing,
        Then aught in the world beside - Jessy!

III.

    I mourn through the gay, gaudy day,
        As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms:
    But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber,
        For then I am lockt in thy arms - Jessy!

IV.

    I guess by the dear angel smile,
        I guess by the love rolling e'e;
    But why urge the tender...

I.

    True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow,
        And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr,
    But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river,
        Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair:
    To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over;
        To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain;
    Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover,
        And maidenly modesty fixes the chain.

II.

    O, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning,
        And sweet is the lily at evening close;
    But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie
        Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose.
    Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring;
        Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law:
    And still to her charms she al...

    Maxwell, if merit here you crave
        That merit I deny,
    You save fair Jessie from the grave,
        An angel could not die.

    Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair,
    And with them take the Poet's prayer;
    That fate may in her fairest page,
    With every kindliest, best presage
    Of future bliss, enrol thy name:
    With native worth and spotless fame,
    And wakeful caution still aware
    Of ill, but chief, man's felon snare;
    All blameless joys on earth we find,
    And all the treasures of the mind,
    These be thy guardian and reward;
    So prays thy faithful friend, The Bard.

June 26, 1796.