Tweed-Side Poem by Vincent Bourne

What beauties does Flora disclose?
How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed?
Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those,
Both nature and fancy exceed.
Nor daily, nor sweet-blushing role,
Nor all the gay flowers of the field,
Nor Tweed, gliding gently through those
Such beauty and pleasure does yield.

The warblers are heard in the grove,
The linnet, the lark, and the thrush,
The black-bird, and sweet-cooing dove,
With musick enchant every bush.
Come, let us go forth to the mead,
Let us see how the primroses spring;
We'll lodge in some village on Tweed,
And love, where the feathered folks sing.