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Poem by James Hogg
The Bonny Lass of Deloraine
STILL must my pipe lie idly by, And worldly cares my mind annoy? Again its softest notes I ’ll try, So dear a theme can never cloy. Last time my mountain harp I strung, ’T was she inspired the simple strain,— That lovely flower, so sweet and young, The bonnie lass of Deloraine. How blest the breeze’s balmy sighs Around her ruddy lips that blow; The flower that in her bosom dies, Or grass that bends beneath her toe. Her cheeks, endowed with powers at will, The rose’s richest shade to drain; Her eyes, what soft enchantments fill! The bonnie lass of Deloraine. Let Athol boast her birchen bowers, And Lomond of her isles so green, And Windermere her woodland shores, Our Ettrick boasts a sweeter scene: For there the evening twilight swells With many a wild and melting strain; And there the pride of beauty dwells,— The bonnie lass of Deloraine. If Heaven shall keep her aye as good And bonnie as she wont to be, The world may into Ettrick crowd, And nature’s first perfection see. Glencoe has drawn the wanderer’s eye, And Staffa in the western main; These natural wonders ne’er can vie Wi’ the bonnie lass of Deloraine. May health still cheer her beauteous face, And round her brow may honor twine, And Heaven preserve that heart in peace, Where meekness, love, and beauty join! But all her joys shall cheer my heart, And all her griefs shall give me pain; For never from my soul shall part The bonnie lass of Deloraine.
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