Poem by Allan Cunningham

The Lass of Gleneslan-Mill

THE LAVEROCK loves the dewy light,
  The bee the balmy foxglove fair;
The shepherd loves the glowing morn,
  When song and sunshine fill the air:
But I love best the summer moon,
  With all her stars, pure streaming still;
For then, in light and love I meet
  The sweet lass of Gleneslan-mill.

The violets lay their blossoms low,
  Beneath her white foot, on the plain;
Their fragrant heads the lilies wave,
  Of her superior presence fain.
O, might I clasp her to my heart,
  And of her ripe lips have my will!
For loath to woo and long to win
  Was she by green Gleneslan-mill.

Mute was the wind, soft fell the dew,
  O’er Blackwood brow bright glowed the moon;
Rills murmured music, and the stars
  Refused to set our heads aboon:
Ye might have heard our beating hearts,
  Our mixing breaths,—all was so still,
Till morning’s light shone on her locks,—
  Farewell, lass of Gleneslan-mill.

Wert thou an idol all of gold,
  Had I the eye of worldish care,
I could not think thee half so sweet,
  Look on thee so, or love thee mair.
Till death’s cold dewdrop dim mine eye,
  This tongue be mute, this heart lie still,—
Thine every wish of joy and love,
  My lass of green Gleneslan-mill!

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