John Crawford

The Broom of the Cowdenknows

WHEN summer comes, the swains on Tweed
  Sing their successful loves;
Around the ewes and lambkins feed,
  And music fills the groves.

But my loved song is then the broom
  So fair on Cowdenknows;
For sure so sweet, so soft a bloom
  Elsewhere there never grows.

There Colin tuned his oaten reed,
  And won my yielding heart;
No shepherd e’er that played on Tweed
  Could play with half such art.

He sung of Tay, of Forth and Clyde,
  The hills and dales all round,
Of Leader-haughs and Leader side,—
  O, how I blessed the sound!

Yet more delightful is the broom
  So fair on Cowdenknows;
For sure so fresh, so bright a bloom
  Elsewhere there never grows.

Not Teviot braes, so green and gay,
  May with this broom compare;
Not Yarrow banks in flowery May,
  Nor the bush aboon Traguair.

More pleasing far are Cowdenknows,
  My peaceful happy home,
Where I was wont to milk my ewes,
  At eve among the broom.

Ye powers that haunt the woods and plains
  Where Tweed with Teviot flows,
Convey me to the best of swains,
  And my loved Cowdenknows.