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O fairest maid, I own thy pow'r,
I gaze, I sigh, and languish,
Yet ever, ever will adore,

And triumph in my anguish.

But ease, O charmer, ease my care,
And let my torments move thee;
As thou art fairest of the fair,

So I the dearest love thee.

[This is the second song which Crawford wrote for Ramsay's collection: the heroine was a Miss Ann Hamilton.]

SWEET SUSAN.

WILLIAM CRAWFORD.

The morn was fair, saft was the air,
All nature's sweets were springing;
The buds did bow with silver dew,
Ten thousand birds were singing:
When on the bent, with blithe content,
Young Jamie sang his marrow,
Nae bonnier lass e'er trod the grass,
On Leader-haughs and Yarrow.

How sweet her face, where ev'ry grace
In heavenly beauty's planted;
Her smiling een, and comely mien
That nae perfection wanted.

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I'll never fret, nor ban my fate,
But bless my bonny marrow;
If her dear smile my doubts beguile,
My mind shall ken nae sorrow.

Yet though she's fair, and has full share
Of every charm enchanting,

Each good turns ill, and soon will kill
Poor me, if love be wanting.

O bonny lass! have but the grace
To think, e'er ye gae furder,
Your joys maun flit, if ye commit
The crying sin of murder.

My wand'ring ghaist will ne'er get rest,
And night and day affright ye;

But if ye're kind, with joyful mind
I'll study to delight ye.

Our years around with love thus crown'd,
From all things joys shall borrow ;
Thus none shall be more bless'd than we
On Leader-haughs and Yarrow.

O sweetest Sue 'tis only you

Can make life worth my wishes,
If equal love your mind can move
To grant this best of blisses.
Thou art iny sun, and thy least frown
Would blast me in the blossom:

But if thou shine, and make me thine
I'll flourish in thy bosom.

[From the Tea Table Miscellany, 1724. Tradition alone has given this song to Crawford.]

MY DEARIE IF THOU DIE.

WILLIAM CRAWFORD.

Love never more shall give me pain,
My fancy's fixed on thee,
Nor ever maid my heart shall gain,
My Peggy, if thou die.

Thy beauty doth such pleasure give,
Thy love's so true to me,
Without thee I can never live,
My dearie if thou die.

If fate shall tear thee from my breast,
How shall I lonely stray :

In dreary dreams the night I'll waste,
In sighs, the silent day.

I ne'er can so much virtue find,
Nor such perfection see;

Then I'll renounce all womankind,
My Peggy, after thee.

No new-blown beauty fires

my

heart

With Cupid's raving rage;

But thine, which can such sweets impart,

Must all the world engage.

'Twas this, that like the morning sun,

Gave joy and life to me;

And when its destin'd day is done,

With Peggy let me die.

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love,
And in such pleasure share;
You who its faithful flames approve,
With pity view the fair:

Restore my Peggy's wonted charms,
Those charms so dear to me!

Oh! never rob them from these arms-
I'm lost if Peggy die.

[From the Tea Table Miscellany, 1724.]

MY LOVE ANNIE'S VERY BONNIE.

WILLIAM CRAWFORD.

What numbers shall the Muse repeat?
What verse be found to praise my Annie?
On her ten thousand graces wait,

Each swain admires, and owns she's bonnie. Since first she trod the happy plain

She sets each youthful heart on fire; Each nymph does to her swain complain That Annie kindles new desire.

This lovely darling, dearest care,

This new delight, this charming Annie, Like summer's dawn, she's fresh and fair, When Flora's fragrant breezes fan ye. All day the amorous youths convene, Joyous they sport and play before her; All night, when she no more is seen,

In blissful dreams they still adore her.

Among the crowd Amyntor came,

He look'd, he lov'd, he bow'd to Annie ; His rising sighs express his flame,

His words were few, his wishes many. With smiles the lovely maid reply'd,

Kind shepherd, why should I deceive ye? Alas! your love must be deny'd,

This destin'd breast can ne'er relieve ye.

Young Damon came with Cupid's art,
His wiles, his smiles, his charms beguiling,
He stole away my virgin heart;

Cease, poor Amyntor, cease bewailing.
Some brighter beauty you may find;

On yonder plain the nymphs are many : Then choose some heart that's unconfin'd, And leave to Damon his own Annie.

[From the Tea Table Miscellany, 1724.]

AH THE POOR SHEPHERD'S MOURNFUL FATE.

WILLIAM HAMILTON.

Born 1704-Died 1754.

Ah the poor shepherd's mournful fate,

When doom'd to love, and doom'd to languish,

To bear the scornful fair one's hate,

Nor dare disclose his anguish.

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