IV.
Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour,
They ne’er wi’ my Phillis can vie:
Her breath is the breath o’ the woodbine,
Its dew-drop o’ diamond, her eye.
V.
Her voice is the song of the morning,
That wakes thro’ the green-spreading grove,
When Phœbus peeps over the mountains,
On music, and pleasure, and love.
VI.
But beauty how frail and how fleeting,
The bloom of a fine summer’s day!
While worth in the mind o’ my Phillis
Will flourish without a decay.
Awa wi’ your belles and your beauties,
They never wi’ her can compare:
Whaever has met wi’ my Phillis
Has met wi’ the queen o’ the fair.
CCIV.
COME, LET ME TAKE THEE.
Air—“Cauld Kail.”