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I. LOVE : PERSONAL |
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Her looks are like the vernal May, When ev'ning Phoebus shines serene;
While birds rejoice on every spray ;
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een.
Her hair is like the curling mist,
That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en,
When flow'r-reviving rains are past;
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een.
Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, When gleaming sunbeams intervene,
And gild the distant mountain's brow; An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een.
Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem, The pride of all the flowery scene,
Just opening on its thorny stem;
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een.
Her bosom's like the nightly snow, When pale the morning rises keen ;
While hid the murmuring streamlets flow; An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een.
Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush, That sings on Cessnock banks unseen ;
While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een.
/ Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,
That sunny walls from Boreas screen ; They tempt the taste and charm the sight; An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een.
Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, With fleeces newly washen clean:
That slowly mount the rising steep,
An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een.
J Her breath is like the fragrant breeze That gently stirs the blossom'd bean ; When Phoebus sinks behind the seas; An' she has twa sparkling, rogueish een.
But it's not her air, her form, her face, Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen ;
'Tis the mind that shines in every grace, An' chiefly in her rogueish een. |
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