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Poem

On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells,
Could I describe her shape and mien!
Our lasses a’ she far excels—
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!

She’s sweeter than the morning dawn,
When rising Phoebus first is seen,
And dew-drops twinkle o’er the lawn—
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!

She’s stately like yon youthful ash,
That grows the cowslip braes between,
And drinks the stream with vigour fresh—
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!

She’s spotless like the flow’ring thorn,
With flow’rs so white and leaves so green,
When purest in the dewy morn—
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish 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, rogueish een!

Her hair is like the curling mist,
That climbs the mountain-sides at e’en,
When flower-reviving rains are past—
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!

Her forehead’s like the show’ry bow,
When gleaming sunbeams intervene,
And gild the distant mountain’s brow—
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!

Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,
The pride of all the flowery scene,
Just opening on its thorny stem—
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!

Her bosom’s like the nightly snow,
When pale the morning rises keen,
While hid the murm’ring streamlets flow—
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish 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, rogueish een!

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep,
With fleeces newly washen clean,
That slowly mount the rising steep—
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze,
That gently stirs the blossom’d bean,
When Phoebus sinks behind the seas—
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish een!

Her voice is like the ev’ning thrush,
That sings on Cessnock banks unseen,
While his mate sits nestling in the bush—
An she has twa sparkling, rogueish 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—
An chiefly in her rogueish een!

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The Lover’s Morning Salute To His Mistress