Oh could I fly, I'd fly with thee!

Thy braes were bonnie, Yarrow stream, When first on them I met my lover; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream, When now thy waves his body cover!

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year.

The sunn must lend his goulden beames, Soft windes their breath, green trees their shade, Sweete fields their flowers, cleare springs their streams, Ere such another smyle bee made.

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice, And with that boding cry Why o'er the waves dost fly? O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice!

We'll sport and be free with Moll, Betty, and Dolly, Have oysters and lobsters to cure melancholy: Fish-dinners will make a lass spring like a flea, Dame Venus, love's lady, Was born of the sea.

Nature gives a parting smile. As yet the blue-bells linger on the sod That copes the sheepfold ring; and in the woods A second blow of many flowers appears, Flowers faintly ting'd and breathing no perfume. But fruits, not blossoms, form …