Classic Poem

With the kine on the mead
On a fine morn of May,
And the lass of the fold
Near them singing her lay,
The rays of the sun
Through the clouds did disclose
Day bright with glad light
And skies lit like the rose.

But 'twas no gathering herd
In the mead of the glen
That my spirit had stirred,
And me passing then,
But the handsomest lassie,
Looks and charm the most sweet,
On the hillock beside them,
Gentle, patient and neat.

My thoughts swam in wonder,
In a swither I staid,
I stood carved like a statue,
Keen regarding the maid;
And though my wish bade me
Hear her fresh melody,
I again paused, with manners,
And bade zeal not make free.

But language would fail me,
'Twere hard for my telling,
Yon fair's face and beauty
All promise excelling:
Profile smooth, white and swan-like,
Or like glen-cotton slender,
Her breath sweet as cinnamon
From her lips pure and tender.

Her hair cross-looped, pretty,
Crook-like, golden, in curl,
Crisp-yellow, twisted ringlets,
In a dishabille whirl—
“Round thy snowy neck the purest,
'Neath cheek of pink hue,
No cosmetic but nature
Gives thee excellence true.”

Face modest, bright, comely,
Mouth sweetest red rose,
Eye winning, blue, trustful,
Level glance, slim eye-brows;
Breast of light, blissful,
Bosom as the sun pure,
Small foot, fine, white and easy
Which the grass could endure.

But to depths of the wood
Where the cuckoo called high,
Lying near to the mead
In which gathered the kye,
Thither saundered the maid
Gentle, easy and sweet,
Tuned her voice, sang a song
Finest music to beat.

She was dwelling on love,
Her heart's wish, her strength too,
For the golden-haired youth
O' Lomond-side o' the cuckoo;
The lark came, and mavis
To big tree-tops that tower,
And so sweetly sang with her
That I listened an hour.

“O Colin, O Colin,”
Sang the love-stricken maid,
“Why came ye not o'er
To the thick-wooded glade?
I'd not ask at command
Any money or treasure,
But to lie in thy bosom,
'Neath thy plaid in the heather.

“Young was I, and Colin
In the cuckoo's wee glens,
While daisies we gathered
By ourselves through the plains;
And we laid us at length,
When we tired, on the brae,
And the winged harpers sang
Our homesickness away.

“'Twas blameless the croon
Of my love in the wild,
While we sported alone
With no ill-thoughts beguiled;
We did, glad and unwearied,
From morn to e'en rove,
And us Cupid alluring,
While children, to love.

“And though summer finds me
In this glen with kine,
Oft my way is to leave them
For others to min';
Then I will come o'er
To this thicket alone,
In the thick of the branches
To pour out my moan.

“My friends gloom upon me
Since they heard how that I
Do much prefer Colin
To the tacksman an's kye;
But I'd not leave my first love
Till death took me away;
Since he vowed to be faithful
Why should I betray?”

So sang the kind maiden
Her faithful love lay,
Her firm vow to her first love
She'd never betray.
Each maid else, this hearing,
Be her mind while she live
That example to follow,
Nor refusal to give.

But I a while resting
On the road aimless stayed.
And my heart fired with gladness
To list to the maid—
From the mountain fold coming
I beheld a youth fine,
And with all his speed nearing
The mead of the kine.

His face an' form had the making
Of a maiden's desire,
At love's earliest breaking
Into bloom of youth's fire
Better vision were not easy
To have ever again
Than the beautiful youth
Coming from wooded glen.

But the youth, handsome, regal,
Glancing round, every side,
The maid of the golden curls,
O'er 'neath shady boughs spied;
With relief his heart taught him
Yon's the goal of his love,
He begged a boon, on their tryst
Small their sorrow might prove.

In a mutual embrace
And regard, as was plain,
Did yon pair lock with gladness,
Their smooth love made them fain,
Since 'twas welcome sincere,
Hard to match, so kind-hearted,
I wished them all joy
To the end, and departed.