First Love. HO' the false world may hide, and sly art may conceal, THO There is no love so pure as the first love we feel; While we try to supplant it or tear it apart, Like a sweet, clasping vine it clings close to the heart. On the ruins of some broken heart it may lean, The sweet smiles of a face and bright love-speaking eyes For a season the passion may partly disguise; And the heart may be sad while the tongue may be still, Yet it lives warmly nursed, let us do what we will. To remembrance it clings, and it clings to the soul, Just as well strive to flee from the presence of God, Like some flower of rare beauty whose delicate form Is too fragile to brave the rude blasts of life's storm; Oh! for pity's sake spare it from slander's foul breath, Till its beatings are hushed in the stillness of death. If you have, then away With your cold heart of stone, And in some desert dwell, Like a hermit, alone. Let me bask in the smiles Seeks a blest home above. I feel I'm Groming Auld, Gude-wife. FEEL I'm growing auld, gude-wife- My steps are frail, my een are bleared, I've seen the snaws o' fourscore years O'er hill and meadow fa', And, hinnie! were it no for you, I feel I'm growing auld, gude-wife— Frae youth to age I've keepit warm I canna bear the dreary thocht That we maun sindered be; There's naething binds my poor auld heart To earth, gude-wife, but thee. |