Poem by Hamilton Paul

The Bonnie Lass of Barr

OF streams that down the valley run,
  Or through the meadow glide,
Or glitter to the summer sun,
  The Stinshar is the pride.
’T is not his banks of verdant hue,
  Though famed they be afar;
Nor grassy hill, nor mountain blue,
Nor flower bedropt with diamond dew;
’T is she that chiefly charms the view,
  The bonnie lass of Barr.

When rose the lark on early wing,
  The vernal tide to hail;
When daisies decked the breast of spring,
  I sought her native vale.
The beam that gilds the evening sky,
  And brighter morning star
That tells the king of day is nigh,
With mimic splendor vainly try
To reach the lustre of thine eye,
  Thou bonnie lass of Barr.

The sun behind yon misty isle
  Did sweetly set yestreen,
But not his parting dewy smile
  Could match the smile of Jean.
Her bosom swelled with gentle woe,
  Mine strove with tender war.
On Stinshar’s banks, while wildwoods grow,
While rivers to the ocean flow,
With love of thee my heart shall glow,
  Thou bonnie lass of Barr.

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