Poem by David Wingate

Avon Braes

’T WAS June, ’t was morn, and Brandon’s deer
  From Cadzow pastures brushed the dew;
The laverock lilted o’er the bere,
  And through the woods shone white Mill Heugh;
His feathered guile the fisher threw,
  The cushie cooed his dearie’s praise,—
When forth I hied the flowers to view,
  And spend an hour on Avon braes.

Nae weary, hopeless swain was I,
  To languish in a sunny glade,	
To aid the zephyr with a sigh,
  And gie each flower a sombre shade.
Exulting through the woods I strayed,
  Through mony a brier and rosy maze;
Or watched where shimmering ripples played
  On Avon, lingering ’mang its braes.

I stood on cliffs with verdure fringed,
  And far beneath me, spreading gay,
With blossomed broom and crawflowers tinged,
  The summer-painted landscape lay.
There woodbine wound its spiral way,
  There brambles leaned on neebor slaes;
And Robin warbled on the spray,
  The blithest bird on Avon braes.

There Scotland’s bearded symbol grew,
  And there her gentler bell I saw;
And, oh! how fondly round them flew
  The odor o’ the blooming haw!
Suppressed my worldly yearnings a’,
  I only wished in measured praise
To sing the charms o’ glade and shaw,
  The linns and rills o’ Avon braes.

O, were I lord o’ Brandon’s Ha’,
  And a’ the charms o’ yonder glen,
Nae stars wad woo me far awa’,
  To wair my golden thousands ten.
If wranged by rude unfeeling men,
  The river’s sang might soothe my waes;
And wha, a life o’ joy to spend,
  Need flee frae Avon’s bonny braes?

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