Agen I'll take my idle pen And sing my bonny mountain maid-- Sweet Phoebe of the Scottish glen, Nor of her censure feel afraid. I'll charm her ear with beauty's praise, And please her eye with songs agen-- The ballads of our early days-- To Phoebe of the Scottish glen. There never was a fairer thing All Scotland's glens and mountains through. The siller gowans of the Spring, Besprent with pearls of mountain dew, The maiden blush upon the brere, Far distant from the haunts of men, Are nothing half so sweet or dear As Phoebe of the Scottish glen. How handsome is her naked foot, Moist with the pearls of Summer dew: The siller daisy's nothing to 't, Nor hawthorn flowers so white to view, She's sweeter than the blooming brere, That blossoms far away from men: No flower in Scotland's half so dear As Phoebe of the Scottish glen. MAID OF THE WILDERNESS Maid of the wilderness, Sweet in thy rural dress, Fond thy rich lips I press Under this tree. Morning her health bestows, Sprinkles dews on the rose, That by the bramble grows: Maid happy be. Womanhood round thee glows, Wander with me. The restharrow blooming, The sun just a-coming, Grass and bushes illuming, And the spreading oak tree; Come hither, sweet Nelly, * * * The morning is loosing Its incense for thee. The pea-leaf has dews on; Love wander with me. We'll walk by the river, And love more than ever; There's nought shall dissever My fondness from thee. Soft ripples the water, Flags rustle like laughter, And fish follow after; Leaves drop from the tree. Nelly, Beauty's own daughter, Love, wander with me. MARY BATEMAN My love she wears a cotton plaid, A bonnet of the straw; Her cheeks are leaves of roses spread, Her lips are like the haw. In truth she is as sweet a maid As true love ever saw. Her curls are ever in my eyes, As nets by Cupid flung; Her voice will oft my sleep surprise, More sweet than ballad sung. O Mary Bateman's curling hair! I wake, and there is nothing there. I wake, and fall asleep again, The same delights in visions rise; There's nothing can appear more plain Than those rose cheeks and those bright eyes. I wake again, and all alone Sits Darkness on his ebon throne. All silent runs the silver Trent, The cobweb veils are all wet through, A silver bead's on every bent, On every leaf a bleb of dew. I sighed, the moon it shone so clear: Was Mary Bateman walking here? WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN? How many times Spring blossoms meek Have faded on the land Since last I kissed that pretty cheek, Caressed that happy hand. Eight time the green's been painted white With daisies in the grass Since I looked on thy eyes so bright, And pressed my bonny lass.