Oh, This Love!

Music--"Jess Macfarlane."




Oh, this love--this love!
    I ainse the passion slighted;
But hearts that truly love,
    Must break or be united.
        Oh, this love!

When first he cam' to woo,
    I little cared aboot him;
But seene I felt as though
    I could na' live without him.
        Oh, this love!

He brought to me the ring,
    My hand asked o' my mither--
I could na' bear the thought
    That he should we anither.
        Oh, this love!

And now I'm a' his ain--
    In a' his joys I mingle;
Nae for the wealth of warlds
    Wad I again be single!
        Oh, this love!

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

The Sister's Appeal. A Fragment.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Margaretta.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

The Stag-Hunt.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

The Seasons of Love.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

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Love Thee, Dearest!

Love thee, dearest?--Hear me.--Never
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May I perish, and for ever,
When, dear maid, I love thee not!
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Let thine eyes with transport glisten!
What hast thou to do with tears?

Dry them, dearest!--Ah, believe me,
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Here's a heart that never will!
Dost thou smile?--A cloud of sorrow
Breaks before Joy's rising sun!
Wilt thou give thy hand?--To-morrow,
Hymen's bond will make us one!

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I Love Thee Still.

I never have been false to thee!--
    The heart I gave thee still is thine;
Though thou hast been untrue to me,
    And I no more may call thee mine!
I've loved, as woman ever loves,
    With constant soul in good or ill:
Thou'st proved as man too often proves,
    A rover--but I love thee still!

Yet think not that my spirit stoops
    To bind thee captive in my train!--
Love's not a flower at sunset droops,
    But smiles when comes her god again!
Thy words, which fall unheeded now,
    Could once my heart-strings madly thrill!
Love a golden chain and burning vow
    Are broken--but I love thee still!

Once what a heaven of bliss was ours,
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And time went by with birds and flowers,
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She Loved Him.

She loved him--but she heeded not--
    Her heart had only room for pride:
All other feelings were forgot,
    When she became another's bride.
As from a dream she then awoke,
    To realize her lonely state,
And own it was the vow she broke
    That made her drear and desolate!

She loved him--but the sland'rer came,
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George Pope Morris

Love in Exile.

Adapted to a Hungarian melody.




My heart I gave you with my hand,
    In brighter days than these,
In that down-trodden father-land
    Beyond the distant seas,
Where you were all the world to me,
    Devoted, fond, and true,
And I, in our prosperity,
    Was all the world to you!
Robbed by a tyrant's iron sway,
We're banished from that land away!

Sad wanderers from our native home!
    A ruler in a foe!
An exiled caravan we roam;
    But hand in hand WE go!
And thus whatever fate betide
    We bless our lot in life,
Since no misfortunes may divide
    The husband and the wife!
Here we defy the tyrant's will,
We're happy in each other still!

George Pope Morris

Mary Morison.

Tune - "Bide ye yet."



I.

    O Mary, at thy window be,
        It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
    Those smiles and glances let me see
        That make the miser's treasure poor:
    How blithely wad I bide the stoure,
        A weary slave frae sun to sun;
    Could I the rich reward secure,
        The lovely Mary Morison!

II.

    Yestreen, when to the trembling string
        The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',
    To thee my fancy took its wing,
        I sat, but neither heard or saw:
    Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
        And yon the toast of a' the town,
    I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
        "Ye are na Mary Morison."

III.

    O Mary, canst thou wreck hi...

Robert Burns

Wearies my Love?

Wearies my love of my letters?
Does she my silence command?
Sunders she Love's rosy fetters
As though they were woven of sand?
Tires she too of each token
Indited with many a sigh?
Are all her promises broken?
And must I love on till I die?

Thinks my dear love that I blame her
With what was a burden to part?
Ah, no!--with affection I'll name her
While lingers a pulse in my heart.
Although she has clouded with sadness,
And blighted the bloom of my years,
I lover still, even to madness,
And bless her through showers of tears.

My pen I have laid down in sorrow,
The songs of my lute I forego:
From neither assistance I'll borrow
To utter my heart-seated wo!
But peace to her bosom, wherever
Her thoughts or her footsteps may stray...

George Pope Morris