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Poem by Allan Cunningham


The Lily of Nithsdale


SHE s gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie,
  She s gane to dwall in heaven;
Ye re ower pure, quoth the voice of God,
  For dwalling out of heaven!

O what ll she do in heaven, my lassie?
  O what ll she do in heaven?
She ll mix her ain thoughts with angels sangs,
  An make them mair meet for heaven.

Low there thou lies, my lassie,
  Low there thou lies;
A bonnier form neer went to the yird,
  Nor frae it will arise!

Fu soon I ll follow thee, lassie.
  Fu soon I ll follow thee;
Thou left me nought to covet ahin,
  But took gudness self wi thee.

I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie,
  I looked on thy death-cold face;
Thou seemed a lilie new cut i the bud,
  An fading in its place.

I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie,
  I looked on thy death-shut eye;
An a lovelier light in the brow of heaven
  Fell time shall neer destroy.

Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie,
  Thy lips were ruddy and calm;
But gane was the holy breath of heaven
  To sing the evening psalm.

There s nought but dust now mine, lassie,
  There s nought but dust now mine;
My saul s wi thee in the cauld grave,
  An why should I stay behin?



Allan Cunningham


Allan Cunningham's other poems:
  1. Bonnie Jeanie Walkinshaw
  2. Gordon of Brackley
  3. The Lass of Gleneslan-Mill
  4. Margaret and Mary
  5. Mary Halliday


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