A Genuine Love-letter

My Mary, maiden of my meed,
Thy beauties soon will be my dead ;
Thy hair's the sunbeam o' the morn,
Thy lip the rose without the thorn ;
The arch above thine ee sae blue,
A fairy rainbow on the dew : —
O Mary, thou art all to me —
This warld holds nought sae sweet as thee !

Thy foot so light, thy step so fleet,
Like the young roe's as lithe and meet,
That scarcely brushes o'er the fell
The dew-drap frae the heather-bell.
Thy voice upon the breezes light,
In gloaming's cradle-hymn of night,
Sounds like the lute's soft melody,
Or seraph's melting strain, to me.

Then, since I may not, dare not tell,
Whom I so fondly love, and well,
I send you this, my darling maid,
To say what I would oft have said,
In hopes, that when you have it read,
You'll hide it in a snowy bed —
A bed so lovely and so meek,
It would not stain a cherub's cheek.

Then meet me in our trysting dell,
And not one word I'll bid you tell ;
The liquid eye the tale will say,
The melting kiss will all betray —
A y, they will tell, my Mary dear,
What you dare neither say nor hear;
And sweeter to my heart they'll prove,
Than all the winning tales of love !