Dramatic Songs

Out to the night
 . . . . . . . . . .

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Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 
	I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie Lassie lives, 
  The Lassie I lo'e best: 
There's wild-woods grow, and rivers row, 
  And mony a hill between; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 
  Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 
  I see her sweet and fair; 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 
  I hear her charm the air: 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 
  By fountain, shaw, or green; 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 
  But minds me o' my Jean.

Where be [ye]1 going, you Devon Maid? 
   And what have ye there in the Basket? 
Ye tight little fairy just fresh from the dairy, 
   Will ye give me some cream if I ask it? 

I love your Meads, and I love your flowers, 
   And I love your junkets mainly, 
But 'hind the door I love kissing more, 
   O look not so disdainly. 

I love your hills, and I love your dales, 
   And I love your flocks a-bleating -- 
But O, on the heather to lie together, 
   With both our hearts a-beating! 

I'll put your Basket all safe in [a]2 nook, 
   Your shawl [I]3 hang up on the willow, 
And we will sigh in the daisy's eye 
   And kiss on [a]2 grass green pillow.

Think not of it, sweet one, so; --
  Give it not a tear;
Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go
  Any -- anywhere.

Do not look so sad, sweet one, --
  Sad and fadingly;
Shed one drop, then it is gone,
  O 'twas born to die!

Still so pale? then, dearest, weep;
  Weep, I'll count the tears,
And each one shall be a bliss
  For thee in after years.

Brighter has it left thine eyes
  Than a sunny rill;
And thy whispering melodies
  Are tenderer still.

Yet -- as all things mourn awhile
  At fleeting blisses,
[E'en]1 let us too! but be our dirge
  A dirge of kisses.