Heath flowers being a collection of poems, chiefly lyrical, written in the Highlands. By William Glen |
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GARTMORE's LILY FLOWER. |
 | Heath flowers |  |
79
GARTMORE's LILY FLOWER.
In Gartmore woods, sae gaudy green,
I heard the summer's gentle sigh;
And aye I blest the lovely scene,
As round I turned my raptured eye:
The glorious sun in cloudless sky,
The melody frae ilka bower,—
“'Tis grand!” was my enraptured cry,
“But whare is Gartmore's Lily Flower?”
I heard the summer's gentle sigh;
And aye I blest the lovely scene,
As round I turned my raptured eye:
The glorious sun in cloudless sky,
The melody frae ilka bower,—
“'Tis grand!” was my enraptured cry,
“But whare is Gartmore's Lily Flower?”
The sun glints sweet owre Strath Monteith,
An' mony a lovely spot is there;
On yon far hill, like snawy wreath,
Stauns Stirling's princely Castle fair;
Beyond, the landscape melts in air,
Like vision raised by fairy power!
O! could I my fond rapture share,
Wi' Gartmore's bonny Lily Flower!
An' mony a lovely spot is there;
On yon far hill, like snawy wreath,
Stauns Stirling's princely Castle fair;
Beyond, the landscape melts in air,
Like vision raised by fairy power!
O! could I my fond rapture share,
Wi' Gartmore's bonny Lily Flower!
80
But she is gane to “bonny France,”
An' left the loveliest sweetest hame;—
Around new scenes her eyes will glance,
But they'll ne'er admiration claim:
To the sweet dwelling o' the Grahame,
Her soul will turn, in lonely hour,
An' mony a sang o' wae she'll frame,
Whan far awa—my Lily Flower.
An' left the loveliest sweetest hame;—
Around new scenes her eyes will glance,
But they'll ne'er admiration claim:
To the sweet dwelling o' the Grahame,
Her soul will turn, in lonely hour,
An' mony a sang o' wae she'll frame,
Whan far awa—my Lily Flower.
France weel may boast her Lilies now,
An' bid the English Rose compare;
England may knit her haughty brow,
And yield the prize in wild despair:
France ne'er possessed a bud more fair,
Since Mary Stuart graced her bower;—
Nane, nane will be so lovely there,
As Gartmore's bonny Lily Flower.
An' bid the English Rose compare;
England may knit her haughty brow,
And yield the prize in wild despair:
France ne'er possessed a bud more fair,
Since Mary Stuart graced her bower;—
Nane, nane will be so lovely there,
As Gartmore's bonny Lily Flower.
Alane I wander thro' thae fields,
Alane I see the flowerets blaw;
The gaudy scene nae pleasure yields,
Nor will it admiration draw;
O! thou dread Power who rules ower a',
Thy choicest mercies on her shower,—
Be kind to her wha's far awa',
Sweet Gartmore's bonny Lily Flower.
Alane I see the flowerets blaw;
The gaudy scene nae pleasure yields,
Nor will it admiration draw;
O! thou dread Power who rules ower a',
Thy choicest mercies on her shower,—
Be kind to her wha's far awa',
Sweet Gartmore's bonny Lily Flower.
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