Ballads and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Bonny Tibbie Inglis!
Through sun and stormy weather,
She kept upon the broomy hills
Her father's flock together.

Sixteen summers had she seen,
A rose-bud just unsealing,
Without sorrow, without fear,
In her mountain shieling.

She was made for happy thoughts,
For playful wit and laughter,

Singing on the hills alone,
With echo singing after.

She had hair as deeply black
As the cloud of thunder;
She had brows so beautiful,
And dark eyes flashing under.

Bright and witty shepherd girl!
Beside a mountain water
I found her, whom a king himself
Would proudly call his daughter.

She was sitting 'mong the crags,
Wild and mossed and hoary,
Reading in an ancient book
Some old martyr story.

Tears were starting to her eyes,
Solemn thought was o'er her;
When she saw in that lone place
A stranger stand before her.

Crimson was her sunny cheek,
And her lips seemed moving
With the beatings of her heart—
How could I help loving!

On a crag I sat me down,
Upon the mountain hoary,
And made her read again to me
That old pathetic story.

Then she sang me mountain songs,
Till the air was ringing
With her clear and warbling voice,
Like a sky-lark singing.

And when eve came on at length,
Among the blooming heather,
We herded on the mountain side
Her father's flock together.

And near unto her father's house
I said “Good night” with sorrow,

And inly wished that I might say,
“We'll meet again to-morrow!”

I watched her tripping to her home;
I saw her meet her mother;
“Among a thousand maids,” I cried,
“There is not such another!”

I wandered to my scholar's home,
It lonesome looked and dreary;
I took my books but could not read,
Methought that I was weary.

I laid me down upon my bed,
My heart with sadness laden;
I dreamed but of the mountain wild,
And of the mountain maiden.

I saw her of her ancient book
The pages turning slowly;
I saw her lovely crimson cheek,
And dark eye drooping lowly.

The dream was, like the day's delight,
A life of pain's o'erpayment.
I rose, and with unwonted care
Put on my sabbath-raiment.

To none I told my secret thoughts,
Not even to my mother,
Nor to the friend who, from my youth,
Was dear as is a brother.

I got me to the hills again,
The little flock was feeding,
And there young Tibbie Inglis sate,
But not the old book reading.

She sate, as if absorbing thought
With heavy spells had bound her,
As silent as the mossy crags
Upon the mountains round her.

I thought not of my sabbath dress;
I thought not of my learning;

I thought but of the gentle maid,
Who, I believed, was mourning.

Bonny Tibbie Inglis!
How her beauty brightened,
Looking at me, half-abashed,
With eyes that flashed and lightened!

There was no sorrow then I saw,
There was no thought of sadness.
Oh life! what after-joy hast thou
Like love's first certain gladness!

I sate me down among the crags,
Upon the mountain hoary;
But read not then the ancient book,
Love was our pleasant story.

And then she sang me songs again,
Old songs of love and sorrow.
For our sufficient happiness
Great charm from woe could borrow.

And many hours we talked in joy,
Yet too much blessed for laughter:
I was a happy man that day,
And happy ever after!

1834.