Allan Cunningham


Phemie Irving


GAY is thy glen, Corrie,
  With all thy groves flowering;
Green is thy glen, Corrie,
  When July is showering;
And sweet is yon wood where
  The small birds are bowering,
For there dwells the sweet one
  Whom I am adoring.

Her round neck is whiter
  Than winter when snowing;
Her meek voice is milder
  Than Ae in its flowing;
The glad ground yields music
  When she goes by the river;
One kind glance would charm me
  For ever and ever.

The proud and the wealthy
  To Phemie are bowing;
No looks of love win they
  With sighing and suing.
Far away maun I stand
  With my rude wooing;
She ís a floweret too lovely
  To bloom for my puíing.

O, were I yon violet
  On which she is walking!
O, were I yon small bird
  To which she is talking!
Or yon rose in her hand,
  With its ripe, ruddy blossom,
Or some pure, gentle thought
  To be blest with her bosom!






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