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Poem by Joanna Baillie
The Maid of Llanwellyn
I ТVE no sheep on the mountain, nor boat on the lake, Nor coin in my coffer to keep me awake, Nor corn in my garner, nor fruit on my tree,Ч Yet the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me. Soft tapping, at eve, to her window I came, And loud bayed the watch-dog, loud scolded the dame; For shame, silly Lightfoot; what is it to thee, Though the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me? Rich Owen will tell you, with eyes full of scorn, Threadbare is my coat, and my hosen are torn: Scoff on, my rich Owen, for faint is thy glee When the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me. The farmer rides proudly to market or fair; The clerk, at the alehouse, still claims the great chair; But of all our proud fellows, the proudest I Тll be, While the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me. † For blithe as the urchin at holiday play, And meek as the matron in mantle of gray, And trim as the lady of gentle degree, Is the maid of Llanwellyn who smiles upon me.
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