My heart! I told thee what it was to love; These lessons I remembered oft and oft, The shepherd came, his words, his looks were such, I warned thee, heart, not to be pleased so much. Hadst thou but taken heed, nor answered still It was not love I felt, but mere good will, Nor idly sported with his lambent fires, His quiet joys, and innocent desires, Thou hadst not found, when it was all too late, The dart of love is often that of fate. Ah silly, silly heart! I told thee so; But I will school thee yet to hide thy wo. Moliere. Translated by Cruse. Then I'll employ wi' pleasure a' my art In winter, when he toils through wind an' rain, A bleezing ingle, an' a clean hearth stane; |