Classic Poem

My bonnie maiden
Of the curled yellow hair,
The smiling blue eyes
And the snowy hands fair;
Britain's downs and hills
I would with thee rove on
In my free garments
Of the tartan woven.

That is the cleeding
Which would rouse my spirit,
My Highland maiden
Is so splendid in it.
From fall of night time
To the light of morrow
Glad were our courting,
And no sleep to borrow.

Though Lowland ladies
Render fashions duty,
The Highland maiden
Far outshone their beauty.
She's a comely virgin,
Not a speck disclosing,
In her brave raiment
Of the tartan clothing.

Genteel and stately,
She is straight and handsome;
The grass will not bend
Though her shoe it dance on,
There's redness, whiteness,
With a fleeting contrast
In her glad fair face,
That made hundreds downcast.

Teeth smooth and even
In their order fine shone,
'Neath lips fair coloured,
Of warmest vermilion.
Her face is modest,
So full of attraction,
The look of her caused
In all men distraction.

Her talk is sweeter
Than a poet's saying,
Her voice completer
Than a spinet playing.
Grief would not stress us,
Nor would wound pain-laden,
Get we but news from
The lips of that maiden.

When comes the Beltane
We will to the sheiling,
In leafy Summer
Up the hummocks speeling;
The harp of the glens
For a courtly chanter
Will often rouse us
To an early canter.

The kine and sheep are
In the heather grazing;
The goats, white-bellied,
Speckled and keen-gazing;
Their offspring leaping,
Care-free, and no shortage,
Butting and fighting,
Sniffing at the foliage.

Myself and May in
The little glens daily,
Or branching woodland
Of the birds winged gaily;
The gowk and mavis
At Music and fleet notes,
Song-singing for us
Out of their sweet throats.