Poem by Allan Cunningham

The Lily of Nithsdale

SHE ’s gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie,
  She ’s gane to dwall in heaven;
Ye ’re ower pure, quoth the voice of God,
  For dwalling out of heaven!

O what ’ll she do in heaven, my lassie?
  O what ’ll she do in heaven?—
She ’ll mix her ain thoughts with angels’ sangs,
  An’ make them mair meet for heaven.

Low there thou lies, my lassie,
  Low there thou lies;
A bonnier form ne’er went to the yird,
  Nor frae it will arise!

Fu’ soon I ’ll follow thee, lassie.
  Fu’ soon I ’ll follow thee;
Thou left me nought to covet ahin’,
  But took gudness’ self wi’ thee.

I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie,
  I looked on thy death-cold face;
Thou seemed a lilie new cut i’ the bud,
  An’ fading in its place.

I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie,
  I looked on thy death-shut eye;
An’ a lovelier light in the brow of heaven
  Fell time shall ne’er destroy.

Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie,
  Thy lips were ruddy and calm;
But gane was the holy breath of heaven
  To sing the evening psalm.

There ’s nought but dust now mine, lassie,
  There ’s nought but dust now mine;
My saul ’s wi’ thee in the cauld grave,
  An’ why should I stay behin’?

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

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