Poems, on sacred and other subjects and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs |
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THE MAID OF ARGYLL. |
 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
THE MAID OF ARGYLL.
Give Erin and England their shamrock and rose,
Let Scotia the thistle's rude merits disclose,
Which bright on the ensigns of heraldry fly:
More pleasant to me is the look of my love,
While with her I stray through the dark birken grove;
For nothing that's earthly can vie with the smile
Of that lovely maid from the hills of Argyll,
Where the red heather blooms on the mountains so high.
Let Scotia the thistle's rude merits disclose,
Which bright on the ensigns of heraldry fly:
More pleasant to me is the look of my love,
While with her I stray through the dark birken grove;
For nothing that's earthly can vie with the smile
Of that lovely maid from the hills of Argyll,
Where the red heather blooms on the mountains so high.
How sweetly at morn blooms the red brier rose,
When, spangled with dew-drops, its bosom it shows,
Perfuming the air, and delighting the eye;
But more fresh than the rose is the cheek of my dear—
And more bright than the dew is her eye shining clear;
And powerful those charms, that each fancy can wile,
Of that lovely maid from the hills of Argyll,
Where the red heather blooms on the mountains so high.
When, spangled with dew-drops, its bosom it shows,
Perfuming the air, and delighting the eye;
But more fresh than the rose is the cheek of my dear—
And more bright than the dew is her eye shining clear;
And powerful those charms, that each fancy can wile,
Of that lovely maid from the hills of Argyll,
Where the red heather blooms on the mountains so high.
383
Old poets have sung of the bright queen of love,
And Daphne, the pride of the dark shady grove,
In strains which the rude hand of time do defy:
But if pleasure can flow from the warm feeling heart,
And if beauty and youth any charms can impart,
Then dear, as the queen of the Cyprian isle,
Is that lovely maid from the hills of Argyll,
Where the red heather waves on the mountains so high.
And Daphne, the pride of the dark shady grove,
In strains which the rude hand of time do defy:
But if pleasure can flow from the warm feeling heart,
And if beauty and youth any charms can impart,
Then dear, as the queen of the Cyprian isle,
Is that lovely maid from the hills of Argyll,
Where the red heather waves on the mountains so high.
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |