Your friendship much can make me blest, O why that bliss destroy! Why urge the only, one request You know I will deny! Your thought, if Love must harbour there, Conceal it in that thought; Nor cause me from my bosom tear The very friend I sought. Go On, Sweet Bird, And Sooth My Care For thee is laughing Nature gay, For thee she pours the vernal day; For me in vain is Nature drest, While Joy’s a stranger to my breast. Clarinda, Mistress Of My Soul Clarinda, mistres of my soul, The measur’d time is run! The wretch beneath the dreary pole So marks his latest sun. To what dark cave of frozen night Shall poor Sylvander hie; Depriv’d of thee, his life and light, The sun of all his joy? We part—but by these precious drops, That fill thy lovely eyes, No other light shall guide my steps, Till thy bright beams arise! She, the fair sun of all her sex, Has blest my glorious day; And shall a glimmering planet fix My worship to its ray? I’m O’er Young To Marry Yet Chorus.—I’m o’er young, I’m o’er young, I’m o’er young to marry yet; I’m o’er young, ’twad be a sin To tak me frae my mammy yet. I am my mammny’s ae bairn, Wi’ unco folk I weary, sir; And lying in a man’s bed, I’m fley’d it mak me eerie, sir. I’m o’er young, &c. My mammie coft me a new gown, The kirk maun hae the gracing o’t; Were I to lie wi’ you, kind Sir, I’m feared ye’d spoil the lacing o’t. I’m o’er young, &c. Hallowmass is come and gane, The nights are lang in winter, sir, And you an’ I in ae bed, In trowth, I dare na venture, sir. I’m o’er young, &c. Fu’ loud an’ shill the frosty wind Blaws thro’ the leafless timmer, sir; But if ye come this gate again; I’ll aulder be gin simmer, sir. I’m o’er young, &c. To The Weavers Gin Ye Go My heart was ance as blithe and free As simmer days were lang; But a bonie, westlin weaver lad Has gart me change my sang. Chorus.—To the weaver’s gin ye go, fair maids, To the weaver’s gin ye go; I rede you right, gang ne’er at night, To the weaver’s gin ye go. My mither sent me to the town, To warp a plaiden wab; But the weary, weary warpin o’t Has gart me sigh and sab. To the weaver’s, &c. A bonie, westlin weaver lad Sat working at his loom; He took my heart as wi’ a net, In every knot and thrum. To the weaver’s, &c. I sat beside my warpin-wheel, And aye I ca’d it roun’; But every shot and evey knock, My heart it gae a stoun. To the weaver’s, &c. The moon was sinking in the west, Wi’ visage pale and wan, As my bonie, westlin weaver lad Convoy’d me thro’ the glen. To the weaver’s, &c.