The Book of Scottish Song/Phemie

Phemie.

[Thomas C. Latto.—Here first printed.]

We sat upon a grassy knowe,
My lassie dear an' me,
When round her neck my arms I flung
An' gat her on my knee.
White as the swan's that bonnie neck,
How saft nae words may say,
I lookit fondly in her face,
And gazed the hours away.

The e'enin' cloud that's fring'd wi' gowd
Was match'd wi' Phemie's hair;
The apple bloom,—how saft its tint,
Her cheek was twice as fair.
Her breath was sweeter than the breeze
That plays 'mang new-maun hay;
Her form was gracefu' as a fawn,
An' fresh as openin' day.

Her poutin' lips sae rosy red
'Mang laughin' dimples dwell,
Nae journey-wark were they I trow,
But made by Love himsel'.
Her voice was like a Unty's sang,
Her een were bonnie blue,
And mine drank in the livin' light
That sparkled through the dew.

I kist her twenty times and mair,
Syne took them a' again;
My heart was rinnin owre wi' bliss
That hour she was mine ain.
O monie a day has fled sinsyne,
When first her lips I prest,
But ne'er a wish has stray'd frae her,
In blessing, I am blest.

Our love was bonnie in the bud,
But bonnier in the bloom,—
The morning rose delights the e'e,
The gloamin' brings perfume.
Methuselah's were mony years,
But lived I lang as he,
I'll ne'er forget the raptur'd hour,
I gat her on my knee.

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