Poem by Allan Cunningham

Phemie Irving

GAY is thy glen, Corrie,
  With all thy groves flowering;
Green is thy glen, Corrie,
  When July is showering;
And sweet is yon wood where
  The small birds are bowering,
For there dwells the sweet one
  Whom I am adoring.

Her round neck is whiter
  Than winter when snowing;
Her meek voice is milder
  Than Ae in its flowing;
The glad ground yields music
  When she goes by the river;
One kind glance would charm me
  For ever and ever.

The proud and the wealthy
  To Phemie are bowing;
No looks of love win they
  With sighing and suing.
Far away maun I stand
  With my rude wooing;
She ’s a floweret too lovely
  To bloom for my pu’ing.

O, were I yon violet
  On which she is walking!
O, were I yon small bird
  To which she is talking!
Or yon rose in her hand,
  With its ripe, ruddy blossom,
Or some pure, gentle thought
  To be blest with her bosom!

1. Gordon of Brackley
2. The Lily of Nithsdale
3. The Lass of Gleneslan-Mill
4. The Lovely Lass of Preston Mill
5. Mary Halliday

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