LOVE.

O, Love's a bitter thing to bide,

The lad that drees it's to be pitied;

It blinds to a' the warld beside,

And makes a body dilde and ditied;

It lies sae sair at my breast bane,

My heart is melting saft an' safter;

To dee outright I wad be fain,

Wer't no for fear what may be after.

I dinna ken what course to steer,

I'm sae to dool an' daftness driven,

For are so lovely, sweet, and dear,

Sure never breath'd the breeze o' heaven;

O there's a soul beams in her ee,

Ae blink o't maks are's spirit gladder,

And ay the mair she geeks at me,

It pits me aye in love the madder.

Love winna heal, it winna thole,

You canna shun't even when you fear it;

An' O, this sickness o' the soul,

'Tis past the power of man to bear it!

And yet to mak o' her a wife,

I couldna square it wi' my duty,

I'd like to see her a' her life

Remain a virgin in her beauty;

As pure as bonny as she's now,

The walks of human life adorning;

As blithe as bird upon the bough,

As sweet as breeze of summer morning.

Love paints the earth, it paints the sky,

An' tints each lovely hue of Nature,

And makes to the enchanted eye

An angel of a mortal creature.

Blackwood's Magazine.