IV.
Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover,
Yet long, long too well have I known,
All that has caused this wreck in my bosom,
Is Jeany, fair Jeany alone.
V.
Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal,
Nor hope dare a comfort bestow:
Come then, enamour’d and fond of my anguish,
Enjoyment I’ll seek in my woe.
CCXII.
DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE.
[To the air of the “Collier’s dochter,” Burns bids Thomson add the following old Bacchanal: it is slightly altered from a rather stiff original.]
I.
Deluded swain, the pleasure
The fickle fair can give thee,
Is but a fairy treasure—
Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.