| |
| ON Cessnock banks a lassie dwells; | |
| Could I describe her shape and mein; | |
| Our lasses a’ she far excels, | |
| An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. | |
| |
| She’s sweeter than the morning dawn, | 5 |
| When rising Phoebus first is seen, | |
| And dew-drops twinkle o’er the lawn; | |
| An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. | |
| |
| She’s stately like yon youthful ash, | |
| That grows the cowslip braes between, | 10 |
| And drinks the stream with vigour fresh; | |
| An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. | |
| |
| She’s spotless like the flow’ring thorn, | |
| With flow’rs so white and leaves so green, | |
| When purest in the dewy morn; | 15 |
| An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. | |
| |
| Her looks are like the vernal May, | |
| When ev’ning Phoebus shines serene, | |
| While birds rejoice on every spray; | |
| An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. | 20 |
| |
| Her hair is like the curling mist, | |
| That climbs the mountain-sides at e’en, | |
| When flow’r-reviving rains are past; | |
| An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. | |
| |
| Her forehead’s like the show’ry bow, | 25 |
| When gleaming sunbeams intervene | |
| And gild the distant mountain’s brow; | |
| An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. | |
| |
| Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem, | |
| The pride of all the flowery scene, | 30 |
| Just opening on its thorny stem; | |
| An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. | |
| |
| Her bosom’s like the nightly snow, | |
| When pale the morning rises keen, | |
| While hid the murm’ring streamlets flow; | 35 |
| An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. | |
| |
| Her lips are like yon cherries ripe, | |
| That sunny walls from Boreas screen; | |
| They tempt the taste and charm the sight; | |
| An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. | 40 |
| |
| Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, | |
| With fleeces newly washen clean, | |
| That slowly mount the rising steep; | |
| An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. | |
| |
| Her breath is like the fragrant breeze, | 45 |
| That gently stirs the blossom’d bean, | |
| When Phoebus sinks behind the seas; | |
| An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. | |
| |
| Her voice is like the ev’ning thrush, | |
| That sings on Cessnock banks unseen, | 50 |
| While his mate sits nestling in the bush; | |
| An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een. | |
| |
| But it’s not her air, her form, her face, | |
| Tho’ matching beauty’s fabled queen; | |
| ’Tis the mind that shines in ev’ry grace, | 55 |
| An’ chiefly in her roguish een. | |
