THE CLACHAN OF GLENDARUEL.
Thy wily eyes, my darling,
Thy graces bright, my jewel,
Have grieved me since our parting
At the kirk of Glendaruel.
'Twas to the Kirkton wending
Bright eyes encounter'd duty,
And mavis' notes were blending
With the rosy cheeks of beauty.
Oh, jimpsome is her shapely waist,
Her arms, her instep queenly;
And her sweet parting lips are graced
With rows of ivory inly.
When busy tongues are railing,
Lown is her word unsaucy,
And with modest grace unfailing
She trips it o'er the causey.
Should royalty prefer me,
Preferment none I crave,
But to live a shepherd near thee,
On the howes of Corrichnaive.
Would fortune crown my wishes—
The shealing of the hill,
With my darling, and the rushes
To couch on, were my will.
I hear, but not instruction,
Though faithful lips are pleading—
I read thy eyes' perfection,
On their dew of mildness feeding.
My hand is swiftly scrolling,
In the courts of reverend men;[46]
But, ah! my restless soul in
Is triumphing my Jean.
I fear, I fear their frowning—
But though they chased me over
Where Holland's flats[47] are drowning,
I 'll live and die thy lover.