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

Welcome Home.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

St. Agnes' Shrine.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Fragment of an Indian Poem.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

The Croton Ode.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

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I Love Thee Still.

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    The heart I gave thee still is thine;
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She Loved Him.

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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;
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    The husband and the wife!
Here we defy the tyrant's will,
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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