 | Poems And Songs |  |
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THE GREEN-MANTLED POOL.
Thou art no rippling ocean, the white pebbles washing;
Thou ne'er wast the star of a fisherman's dream;
No broom-bordered burnie adown the hill dashing,
And glittering in gold 'neath the fast-setting beam.
But thou'rt dear to yon rushes—
Yon sloe-blossomed bushes;
And the breeze of the evening, so fragrant and cool,
Hath left yon green mountains,
With all their bright fountains,
To sigh o'er thy bosom, thou green-mantled pool.
Thou ne'er wast the star of a fisherman's dream;
No broom-bordered burnie adown the hill dashing,
And glittering in gold 'neath the fast-setting beam.
But thou'rt dear to yon rushes—
Yon sloe-blossomed bushes;
And the breeze of the evening, so fragrant and cool,
Hath left yon green mountains,
With all their bright fountains,
To sigh o'er thy bosom, thou green-mantled pool.
What though thou art shunned by the gull of the ocean?
The duck to thy treasures comes waddling from far;
Though bard never praised thee with soul-sung devotion,
The lark sings thy praise to the night-chasing star.
And though the proud lily,
And tulip dressed gaily,
Might shun thy rough borders as noxious and foul,
Yet the seggan waves o'er thee,
And reverend before thee
Still bends yon sweet pinkies, dear green-mantled pool.
The duck to thy treasures comes waddling from far;
Though bard never praised thee with soul-sung devotion,
The lark sings thy praise to the night-chasing star.
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And tulip dressed gaily,
Might shun thy rough borders as noxious and foul,
Yet the seggan waves o'er thee,
And reverend before thee
Still bends yon sweet pinkies, dear green-mantled pool.
No far-travelled salmon, among the weeds roaming,
Hath braved, for thy sake, towering dam and fierce flood;
But joyous within thee the frog croaks at gloaming,
And thousands of tadpoles delight in thy mud.
Though ne'er in fit weather,
For evenings together,
An angler above thee his rod waves by rule,
O'er thy weed-cumbered billows
Yon tuft of tall willows
Droops guileless and snareless, dear green-mantled pool.
Hath braved, for thy sake, towering dam and fierce flood;
But joyous within thee the frog croaks at gloaming,
And thousands of tadpoles delight in thy mud.
Though ne'er in fit weather,
For evenings together,
An angler above thee his rod waves by rule,
O'er thy weed-cumbered billows
Yon tuft of tall willows
Droops guileless and snareless, dear green-mantled pool.
'Tis like thou wert never a nymph-haunted fountain,
Where gods in the morning came amorous to woo,
But my Jessie lives near thee, sweet maid of the mountain,
Far fairer than all the nymphs Jove ever knew.
No burn singing ever,
No sea-seeking river,
No lake of the hills, ever fresh, ever full,
Could I place above thee,
As something more lovely;
Thou'rt the sweetest of lakelets, dear green-mantled pool.
Where gods in the morning came amorous to woo,
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Far fairer than all the nymphs Jove ever knew.
No burn singing ever,
No sea-seeking river,
No lake of the hills, ever fresh, ever full,
Could I place above thee,
As something more lovely;
Thou'rt the sweetest of lakelets, dear green-mantled pool.
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